


Lethe

by Doceo_Percepto



Series: Leech [2]
Category: Kirby - All Media Types
Genre: 'cause it's gonna take a while for you to get there, Dramatic to a fault, Everything is Psychological, Kirby suffers, Marx ruins things, Meandering Narrative, Sociopaths, There's a plot hidden somewhere here, Under all the angst and, but if you're reading for those fancy tags of 'rape/non-con' and such you might want to stop, implied Magolor/Lor Starcutter, lots of pain, y'all know I'm just posting it here because FFN don't let me add le porn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-07
Updated: 2017-04-20
Packaged: 2018-09-07 02:26:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 21
Words: 90,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8779522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doceo_Percepto/pseuds/Doceo_Percepto
Summary: [Sequel to Leech] Kirby readies for the final battle against Zero Two.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Español available: [Lethe](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10423233) by [Balderouge](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Balderouge/pseuds/Balderouge), [Doceo_Percepto](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doceo_Percepto/pseuds/Doceo_Percepto)



> I'm pleased to announce there is now a Spanish translation of Lethe! It is translated by Balderouge. For those interested, here is a link to the first chapter: https://www.amor-yaoi.com/viewstory.php?sid=187834&textsize=0&chapter=1

"There's something on the radar."

 _No, please go away..._ He squeezed his eyes shut tighter. With his knees hugged to his chest and his back pressed against the cold metal wall, it was impossible to sleep. This did not stop him from trying.

"Kirby, _I said,_ there's something on the radar." Danger in each syllable.

"Is it an asteroid?" Kirby forced himself to say.

"Planet," Marx replied excitedly, again proving his moods were as malleable as water and could, in a heartbeat, transform from calm seas to catastrophic storms and back. As if there hadn't been enough proof in the past.

Dully, "is it taken by Dark Matter?"

With an escalating tone, Marx answered, "newp! Kay, it's civilized!"

Kirby's head jerked up, he suddenly wide-awake. There was never a civilized, non-hostile planet. For months, not one. They needed one though: they were running out of everything. He hurried to Marx's side, whom leaned fixedly over the controls, palms flat on the dials, and his purple eyes eagerly scanning the Halberd's radar. There was a certain natural joy in his demeanor which Kirby had not witnessed for a while, and he was instantly yearning to share in it.

"What's the planet?" he breathed. "How have they held out so long?"

"A lot of planets have held out all this time; otherwise there would be no resistance," Marx snapped, "we just haven't come across them. They must have better defenses. It might even be a base for the GSA." Thoughtfully Marx navigated the control board with his thin fingers, hunting for the information needed.

"A GSA base? I thought we were avoiding alliances in the war. What if we're attacked?"

"Psh, then we annihilate them. Have you seen the ship we're in? Although..." Marx frowned and trailed off.

Unspoken, the previously uplifting mood soured sharply. A coil of tension settled in the pit of Kirby's stomach, and he didn't dare reply quite yet. Only the tapping of buttons and the ceaseless hum of five engines pervaded the room.

"...Nashira," Marx finally said. "That's the planet name... Hm, the major city... run by an earl..." Something was off; Marx looked uneasy.

"How far?" Kirby whispered.

"It's... I don't..." Puzzled, he reverted to fiddling with the controls again. His eyes, narrowed in confusion, flicked between the radar and the windshield. "There's something wrong."

Cautiously Kirby stood on his toes and peered over Marx's shoulder. He didn't understand as much about the ship as Marx did, but after spending so much time on this deck with him, he'd gained a basic grasp on the controls. He, at least, comprehended what the two radars were supposed to be doing, and the appearance of various items on them. One was a weaker radar; giving general impressions of where things were, but also sensing objects at much greater distances and at much higher masses - like planets. The other was for shorter distances but precise coordinates, and was more often used when detecting other nearby ships or navigating the surface of a planet.

Soon Kirby located the planet Marx must be talking about; it appeared as an enormous yellow mass against the green background, positioned at the far right and top of the general radar.

Then, even as he watched, it blinked out. Startled, Kirby squinted at the display. The dot reappeared, this time at the bottom left side of the screen. Much in imitation of Marx, Kirby glanced at the windshield. Endless black space, as usual... Though there was a lighter spot, directly in their path.

The dot changed again, this time blinking directly in front of the ship's location. According to the radar, they were about to collide with a planet.

Kirby reeled away reflexively, eyes jerking up - and seeing nothing in the space. If they were about to collide with the planet, then it was completely invisible. And lacking an atmosphere and gravity, since the Halberd's movement didn't change.

"Well," Marx said flatly. The dot on the radar moved to the far left again. "Apparently... we have a migrating planet."

"What does that mean?"

A stern female voice, projecting over the intercom, interrupted Marx before he could provide a snarky response.

"You have entered Neutral Territory. Unregistered alien warships will be shot down without hesitation unless you provide certification. You have one minute."

Kirby and Marx's gazes met with rivaling expressions of shock.

"One minute?" Kirby said hoarsely.

"It's not a GSA base!" Marx declared, oxymoronically happy considering the situation.

"But they're gonna kill us!"

Marx's hand lashed out and he brought the small intercom close to his lips. His eyes narrowed, his entire focus suddenly directed at the current task. He said into the machine, "I suggest you rethink that decision."

The apparent malice and superiority, even directed at someone else, sent a shiver down Kirby's spine. He didn't dare ask what Marx was doing, even though he was sure resisting these 'Neutral Territory' policies was suicidal.

A pause. Marx's self-assured smirk remained.

The female voice sounded less mechanical when the intercom next crackled to life. "Identify yourself."

"I'm just a messenger - there's important information for the earl."

Instantly, the voice retaliated, "Messengers do not come with threats, nor warships. Twenty-six seconds to turn around."

Marx laughed brusquely. "I was instructed to use any means possible to get on the planet. On short notice, I had no choice but to take an ally's warship. This is very important information."

"Who do you consider your ally?" the tone still had not changed, and if Kirby was not so frightened he might respect the operator for her inability to be convinced.

In no hurry to answer - despite Kirby whining softly at his side - Marx leaned against the control board casually. "The minute is up. Either let us pass or shoot us down - if you choose the latter, then don't blame my dead body for the destruction of your planet!"

"Cease advancing and we can talk," the operator relented, albeit with an angry undertone.

"I don't think you're in any position to negotiate."

"Marx," Kirby hissed under his breath. "Just stop! I'm sure she'll let us go when we-nnfffrhhg." Kirby glared fiercely when Marx slapped his free hand across his mouth.

"There are five K-31 warships with canons trained on yours. Rethink _your_ position," the operator flatly replied.

"Ohh," Marx's eyes widened. "Did I not make my position clear? _I'm on top_."

A crack tore through the air, louder than lightening, and perfectly audible even through the Halberd's hull. The entire ship lurched violently to the right. Marx rapidly let go of Kirby and grabbed the control board; Kirby, meanwhile, crashed to the floor and had to scramble up again.

"Idiot!" Kirby said the word before thinking about it, and decided all things considered, he'd rather get Marx angry at him than be blown to pieces in space.

"Warning shot," Marx snapped back, his thumb hovering over the button to speak to the operator again.

"Warning shot? They're gonna kill us!" he grabbed the intercom.

Marx growled at him. "Hey! I can't help it they have a terrible sense of humor! You just - that's mine!" The intercom was nearly pried from Marx's fingers when the jester grabbed his throat and twisted around so Kirby was pinned to the control board - narrowly avoiding the button that released missiles.

"Stop advancing!" the operator shouted. "We will not hesitate to shoot you down!"

Trembling, Kirby choked out, "please, s-stop... they'll kill us."

Marx leered at him. With one hand still loosely holding down Kirby, he replied, "I'll only repeat myself one more time. I have critical information to give to the earl. There's no time to wait. It must be immediately. If you stop me, your planet will be destroyed."

Though he spoke to the operator, his purple eyes remained uncannily pinned on Kirby throughout the entire message.

There was a tense silence. Kirby didn't dare move yet, wildly imagining that the last thing he'd feel was Marx's hand wrapped around his throat.

Then, at last; "follow the marker on your radar. It's the fastest way to the earl. Soldiers will be waiting."

The connection ceased, and it was silent in the Halberd.

"She believed you?" Kirby squawked.

"And you doubted me. What else is new?" Marx shoved him away from the controls so he could study the radar. Nashira had reappeared, along with the much smaller marks of numerous ships around them. The Halberd's computers also now displayed a small section of the planet, complete with a black dot marking where they ought to land.

Kirby exhaled slowly. The threat of imminent death had passed, though his trembling lingered. "Now you have to speak to this king, though..."

"Earl. You're still doubting my powers of persuasion?"

Not providing an immediate response, Kirby considered if he wanted to ask the difference between an earl and a king, or if he should ask what exactly he planned on telling this earl.

Marx didn't wait for a reply. "Hm, I guess this means you'll have to get the food yourself," he remarked, striding to the captain's seat and sticking his tongue out thoughtfully as he tweaked the Halberd's direction. As they neared, the round yellow-blue planet also came closer into sight through the windshield.

Marx's last comment, however, entirely distracted Kirby. "I'm not going with you? To talk to the earl?" he asked anxiously.

"Oh no," Marx laughed, "you might mess it up."

"I wouldn't mess it up," Kirby protested, well aware of how childish he sounded, but uncaring of that fact. For the moment, at least. Marx couldn't just drop him in the middle of a completely different planet. He had absolutely no experience with anything outside of Dreamland, besides the Halberd and empty space. Just under a year ago, his entire world had consisted wholly of Dreamland's town and fields. Since Marx had told him the truth about the immensity of the universe, he'd obtained a certain level of comfort with the concept of it - but he was no where near comfortable with its reality.

By Marx's lack of response, he seemed to have disregarded this fact entirely. "Consider it an honor. You are Kirby, the Great Hero of Food. Bringer of Snacks. Without you, we would surely starve."

"We could go talk to the earl, then get food," suggested Kirby.

"Except you'd mess it up then we wouldn't get food."

"Mess it up how?"

Marx waved a hand dismissively. "Just look at the intercom thing! I had this amazing excuse for the woman and you almost interrupted me. If I hadn't got you to shut up, we'd be floating bits of dust in space by now."

"That wouldn't have happened if you'd told me you were planning on acting like a messenger!"

"Because 'you have one minute before you get shot down and die' definitely puts me in the mood to explain my idea," retorted Marx sarcastically. "While I'm at it, would you like my entire life story?"

Kirby hesitated. Admittedly, Marx had a point there. But... "You could tell me now so I won't mess up with the earl."

"Or I could not." Luckily, he seemed to find the argument more amusing, granting Kirby more confidence and sparing him the imminent danger of pushing Marx too far. Unluckily, it meant Marx wasn't taking him seriously at all.

"If you told me what you were doing, there'd be no problem!" Kirby lashed back.

"If you knew what you were doing, there'd be no problem!"

"What-? What am I doing?"

"Food shopping!" Marx threw up both hands happily and giggled.

"No, Marx, seriously!" There was no way he was serious. He had to be kidding. But this was Marx, and Kirby was no idiot. "I don't know what to do!" he moaned. "What if they try to kick me out, since I'm from a different planet? Or... or... I dunno..." he hunted for words, sure that there was a million different ways this could go wrong.

"Or don't take our currency or don't speak our language? Myep, I'm sure you can figure it out." Marx smiled brightly and his attention reverted back to the Halberd.

"Wait, currency? And... Marx, there aren't... other languages, are there? Marx, listen to me!" The greater fear of the unknown bolstered Kirby's bravery with Marx, and he grabbed the other's sleeve angrily.

"Of course there are!" Marx snapped back, shoving Kirby away. With a brief, annoyed glare, he added, "Che; you're so irritating. Ignorant or not, you can figure something out for yourself, can't you? Now shut up. I'm busy." Without waiting for an answer, he turned back to the controls. Within seconds, he began humming a cheerful tune to himself, seeming to have completely forgotten his annoyance.

Kirby bit his bottom lip lightly to restrain any further questions. The confirmation that other languages existed was none too comforting... And he could only imagine stepping through gates (that, in his mind, were fashioned after Dreamland's gates) and coming face-to-face with a citizen who jabbered at him with jumbled words and phrases he didn't understand. What could he do if that happened? Find someone who spoke his language?

Suddenly it occurred to him that the earl might even speak another language - surely Marx didn't know another? ... Or did he?

Kirby groaned quietly to himself.

Subdued, he watched as the surface of the planet grew nearer and nearer. Even his gnawing worries could not prevent the curiosity that welled in his chest. Stepping lightly so as not to disturb, he approached the windshield, stopping at his companion's side - though at a safe distance. To his soundless awe, things began to take shape on the yellow skin of the planet: muddy greens and grays seeped into existence in patches. The Halberd shifted ever lower, descended into the clouds and then beneath them, soared like a giant predator over landscapes that rushed by as soon as they took shape. Shrubs, dark brown and gray brush, scraggly trees, small lakes of off-color, steaming water.

Kirby had seen this process only once before, in reverse: when they had left Dreamland five months prior, when he had watched the lush green grass and wood huts fall away through his tear-blurred eyes. The experiences felt drastically different. In one, the Halberd did not seem to be moving - rather, it was Dreamland that had fallen away, leaving him disconcerted and detached, broken off from reality and time.

Now, he felt the opposite effect. Nashira was solid, unmovable: it was he who moved closer, who sought to land on the steady ground. The sight of the sun-baked sands below alone provided him again with a sense of time, showed him it was day, and that Nashira was not timeless, like space. He'd almost forgotten the cycle of day and night. On the Halberd, there was only sleeping and awake.

It was as if the clock hands had begun to move again.

The Halberd decelerated. In the distance, a walled city emerged from the foggy yellow horizon. The walls were dark grey, made of stone. Outside the city was parked several other ships, though none as large as the Halberd. They all were of squatter builds, designed to carry cargo rather than fight. A nearby path wound by the ships and led to the gate.

Kirby's anxiety returned full force. This wasn't just going beyond Dreamland's borders. This was an entirely different planet, and he must face it virtually alone. Silently, he allowed his finger tips to rest on the back of Marx's hand; a gesture which was thankfully ignored.

When the Halberd reached nearly a crawl in the air, only a mile or so from the sprawling city, Kirby could see the soldiers that the operator had spoken of, standing off the path and beside an empty spot between two ships.

Marx stuck out his tongue in concentration. "Alrighty - landing. About that..." His eyes hunted over the controls, his hands occasionally ghosting over a button or dial only to retreat. His confusion at last prompted Kirby to speak;

"You know how to land, right?"

"It's just taking off in reverse."

Not the most reassuring answer. Kirby rephrased, "Have you ever done it before?"

"Sure!"

After another moment of thinking, Kirby corrected himself, "Have you ever _landed_ a ship before?"

Marx shot him a withering look. "I've done that too. A few times. I crashed the last time!" He looked a little too delighted about this fact.

"Oh." Great. Kirby glanced around hurriedly for something to hold on to, which Marx managed to notice.

"Hey!" he snapped surlily. "I'm not that bad. Look, I got us over a good spot... This is probably fine. The real problem," he continued, fiddling with the levers, "is that Meta Knight designed this ship badly. Oh, it's great for explosions and destruction, yes - but landing? Pfft. I mean, how am I supposed to see where I'm going? Could be landing on the city and I wouldn't notice."

"Could we be?" Kirby said worriedly.

"Mm, maybe not. Those soldiers better get out of the way, though. This conversation with the earl will not go well if the first thing I say is 'oh hey, I squished-'"

A grating thump of metal cut off Marx's words. The jester cringed and stopped the Halberd.

Kirby sucked in a breath. "Whatwasthat?"

Marx laughed. "Oops. Um. I'll just... scoot over a little bit..."

"Did we hit another ship?!"

The Halberd hovered up, and moved over the slightest bit. "One thing Meta Knight did right was making the hull so strong," Marx nodded, "we probably don't even have a dent."

_So, yes, we hit another ship._

The Halberd began to lower again. For the second time, there was a dull thump, and the ship jolted to a halt, eliciting a loud cackle from Marx. "Ahah - I can't drive! This is like bumper ships!"

"Marx!" Kirby groaned, now clutching his face. "That's other people's property! Just because we don't get dents doesn't mean they won't!"

"You act like I'm doing it on purpose," answered Marx, sounding wounded.

"Are you?!"

"Of course not. It's their fault for parking so close together. Now they'll be more careful in the future, and they have me to thank."

"Can we please land now?" Kirby said in a small voice. 'Hopefully without damaging any other ships,' he added privately to himself.

"What, you don't like when I do this?" Marx jerked the wheel, and the Halberd lurched to the side. Crunching metal resounded through the deck. Kirby had to latch onto the back of Marx's chair to stop from falling over.

Kirby paled. "No, I don't! Seriously, stop!"

"Oops!" Wheel twisted the other direction.

"Marx!"

"OH MY GOD WHY DOES THIS KEEP HAPPENING?" With one hand, Marx pulled his hair in agony; with the other, he directed the Halberd to crash into the merchant ship again.

"They're gonna arrest-"

"I just can't control it!"

CRASH!

Kirby dove at the wheel. His hands slammed down next to Marx's and when the jester next tried to jerk the wheel, he resisted the movement. "They are going to think you are a lunatic," he said sternly, looking back over his shoulder to glare at Marx.

He sneered back. "Then I can plead insanity if they charge us for destroying property."

"That might not be far off from the truth."

"So they'll believe me," Marx said, looking pleased with himself. "Now... Give me my steering wheel back."

"Don't hit any more ships."

Smirking, Marx reclined back in the chair. "Technically, I only hit two. Multiple times."

"You know what I mean."

Something of the mischievous spark in his purple eyes was suddenly suppressed. Not gone entirely, but rather darkened through a translucent window. "Oh, I'm sorry," he mocked, a grin twisting across his face, "were you being serious? Were you... ordering me?"

Even if Kirby hadn't become so attuned to the signs evidencing Marx's sadism, he easily would have known this wasn't something he should argue... not with that tone.

He let go of the wheel as if it had burned him. "Sorry."

Marx looked faintly disappointed, but pried no further.

The remaining few yards that the Halberd had to descend went smoothly. Marx then shut off the warship, which silenced the comforting hum of the five engines.

For a few seconds it was deadly silent, then the jester smiled mildly, standing from his chair. "So. These soldiers don't know about you, and I would prefer to keep it that way. It's just more work to have to explain you too. I'll go with them, you wait here until we're long gone. They probably won't search the ship, so you don't have to worry about being found. If so... well, come up with a good lie or something."

He strode towards the exit, clearly done talking.

"Wait," Kirby hurried after him, "you can't help me at all?"

"Go to the city," Marx rolled his eyes. "You can figure it out from there. You're not hopeless. I think." As if seriously contemplating this statement, he studied Kirby carefully before shrugging and dialing in the code to open the hatch to leave.

"Wait, but-"

He shoved him back. "Ah ah - can't let you be seen." He dug coins out of his pocket and dropped them on the floor. "There. There's money. Remember - wait 'til I'm out of sight." He pointed at Kirby meaningfully. "You are my top secret weapon."

Kirby paused. "I'm a weapon?"

"You're whatever I want you to be. But, I couldn't think of a better word. Stop asking stupid questions." With this affectionate final remark, Marx pushed Kirby away again and opened the hatch before strutting out. As the door closed, Kirby heard him say something about being used to messenger ships, not battleships, and bemoaning how awful they were to land. Kirby didn't even know if messenger ships existed. Sighing, he collected the coins from the floor.

Then, from the windshield, he watched as Marx and the soldiers departed. It was an unusual sight: six or seven soldiers clad in grim gray armor with long silver swords at their sides. Even their helmets covered any variation in hair color they might have. Marx, meanwhile, was a rainbow of color compared to them. The black of his hair was mostly hidden by his blue and red jester hat, so only the purple tips and bits of black stuck out at odd angles. In addition, his multicolored outfit stood out like a banner.

It was with a deep sense of unease that he watched him walk away. He didn't doubt that Marx could worm himself out of any situation he'd gotten himself into - but he did doubt his own ability to do just that. Mostly because he morally hated to resort to Marx's tricks and deceit - not that he had any ability in that department anyway. As Marx loved to tell him, he made a horrible liar. This was something Kirby interpreted as a compliment or an insult depending on the situation (not that he would admit it to himself later if he found himself wishing to be a better liar). He tried to pride himself on his inability to lie or omit the truth, but this was one such situation where it might be helpful. There was no telling what questions he might asked for being a foreigner, and what if the truth would not be favorable?

The silence disturbed him - just to provide sound he walked around the Halberd and listened to his own footsteps while he waited: from the control room, the hallway, the kitchen, the bedroom, storage rooms...

When he completed several laps, he peered out the windshield again.

Marx and the soldiers had vanished within the city gates, likely several minutes ago. If any time was ideal, it would be now. Squeezing the coins in his pocket anxiously, Kirby opened the door and stepped out.

Without Marx at his side, the sensation of being extraordinarily small and alone overcame him and tethered him firmly to the very place he had stepped off the ramp. For five months he had not seen nor spoken to another soul. Even his dreams, infrequent and obscure as they were, had begun to confine themselves within the Halberd's metal walls.

Kirby's next reaction, then, was merely to look. He squinted at the clear blue sky; a forgotten sight, then lowered his gaze and studied the city. It was enclosed with large stone walls, blocking his view. The wooden gate, however, was not far, flanked by two enormous stone towers and watched over by two guards in full chain mail armor and gleaming silver swords. A wide dirt path, marred by two ruts from the crossings of wagons, weaved through the dunes before meeting with the gate.

The open space was intimidating after so long in a ship. The city would be better, Kirby thought to himself; to be inside the stone walls, where the sky would not be so visible and the horizon nothing more than blank stone.

With this in mind, he hurried onto the path and followed a group of traveling merchants towards the gate. The merchants were heavily laden with sacks upon their backs, which clattered with their wares. Each seemed to sell something different, from cast iron pots, to heavy wool clothes, to various spices. They talked cheerfully amongst themselves and Kirby found himself falling silently in step behind them, happy to follow their lead but unwilling to engage in their loud conversation. They didn't seem to notice him. He, however, noticed how dramatically he stood out.

The merchants all had light chestnut skin, and friendly dark eyes. They wore simple - possibly leather - outfits with multiple layers, despite the heat. Meanwhile, Kirby had bright blue eyes, sun-deprived pale skin, and blonde hair. Not to mention his bright red T-shirt and blue jeans.

As such, he was nearly slinking in their shadows by the time they reached the gate. 'Sticking out' was the worst thing someone could do in Dreamland... He had no reason to believe any other place would be different.

The merchants seemed to recognize the two guards, and the group started up a jovial conversation. After much back and forth exchange of light-hearted bantering, the guards finally opened the gates and gestured the merchants through with pats on their backs.

Kirby glimpsed possibly one of the most frightening sights as the merchants were ushered in - the enormous, busting city, with a crowd of people so thick he couldn't imagine how the merchants had managed to squeeze into that crammed space. It wasn't that the city was small - but that there were so many people. He heard the rumble of hundreds of voices speaking at once, mixed with the squeaking, shrieking, and barking of animals, and the rattling of carts, and perhaps a hundred other sounds that couldn't be distinguished with the overall cacophony of noise.

Then the thick wooden gates shut in front of his stunned eyes. The sound ceased. The guards surveyed him oddly.

"What're you wanting in the city for?" one asked, not unkindly.

Still, Kirby shrank back a little. Surely they were now thinking of how strange he looked - how unusual - for they had the same chestnut-like skin as the merchants, and Kirby was quite clearly different than them. Was there a punishment for being of a different planet? "I'm sorry," he choked out, though he didn't know what he was apologizing for.

"Are y'lost?"

"I j-just... I need food. I mean, supplies and stuff."

"That ship yours?" the second guard asked abruptly. Kirby glanced back to where he was gesturing.

"It's the Halberd," Kirby nodded uneasily. Was something wrong with it?

The second guard chuckled. "Was watching you come in. Wish I had something like that." He whistled and grinned. "Lucky man, if you wern't such a awful pilot. Hope ya have the money to pay for that." He clapped Kirby's shoulder, eliciting a small flinch.

"Y-yeah," Kirby responded.

"A'ight, I see you're in a hurry. Here ya are."

Both guards turned and pushed open the wooden doors. Once more that crowded, alien world opened before him. And this time, Kirby stumbled into it. The wooden doors shut behind him with decided finality.


	2. Chapter 2

The city was at once overwhelming; on all sides, he was jolted and shoved. No matter how much he tried to shrink into himself, the smells of the market and masses invaded his nose, sweaty tanned arms bumped him, vociferous bantering and shouting assaulted his ears. There were so many people. Even with how large the walled city was - likely two or three times the size of Dreamland - it was crammed with people, animals, carts, and stands from wall to wall.

They were all going somewhere, doing something. Kirby realized with a start he had things to do as well. But how could he possibly get through this enormous crowd to find what he wanted, forget buying it? His only consolation was that nearly everyone seemed to be speaking the right language. Kirby suspected Marx had lied when he'd claimed other languages existed - until a group of cloaked travelers brushed past him, chattering excitedly with unfamiliar syllables and inflections.

Yes, everything was overwhelming - terrifying, even - but at the same time it was... amazing. Dreamland would never have this amount of diversity - or such great numbers of people, all in one place.

Foods he had never heard of were advertised from wooden stands, clothes of all colors and types were worn by people equally unique - some that did not even seem entirely human. And yes - a variety of coins passed from hand to hand, none which were Dreamland coins.

If only it weren't so crowded, Kirby may have really enjoyed the experience. As it was, he had to fight down his growing claustrophobia while being shunted down the dirt street by the pulsing mob.

"S-sir?" Kirby tapped a nearby man on the shoulder. "Please, do the venders accept-?" But the man twisted away and disappeared amongst the others without the slightest glance at Kirby, as though he hadn't heard him at all. Possibly, he hadn't. The level of noise in the city had to be illegal.

Someone shoved him and he bumped against a tall woman carrying a sack of potatoes. "S-sorry," he apologized, but she hadn't noticed. Hastily, Kirby struggled to reach one of the city walls, thinking perhaps it'd be easier to avoid the current of people with his back pressed against the cold stone. There, at least, he'd have a chance to think about the situation.

After much uncomfortable weaving and stumbling, he slipped between two vender's stands and wedged himself in the cool shade they provided. He sighed. Almost subconsciously, his eyes closed and he slumped against the wall. Okay, this was even more exhausting than he expected, and the ordeal was made no better with the sun beating down from above. Dreamland's sun never had been that hot. Not that Kirby could remember.

"Would you like some water?" a voice very close suddenly offered.

Kirby's eyes snapped open. With a yelp, he tried to leap back only for his back to collide with the wooden post of another stand. Wincing, he rubbed his back and eyed the source of the sound.

A girl, perhaps a year or so younger than him, was leaning out of the side of the stand and gazing inquisitively at him.

Her skin was a light hazel color, darkened slightly in the shade. Her black hair was bound in a long braid that she'd slung over her shoulder, but some of her tresses had come loose. She tossed her head to get them out of her concerned eyes. "Water?" she held out a cup of clear liquid.

"Jeez..." Slowly, his heart rate began to calm again.

She laughed. "You looked like you were going to pass out. I thought you might want a drink."

"Who are you?" he demanded.

Something in the question threw her off. Her smile faltered. Kirby's eyes narrowed, his fists clenched subconsciously. Why did she talk to him so suddenly like that? Why did it bother her if he wanted to know who she was?

She cleared her throat. "I'm Khayla. I didn't mean to scare you." If anything, she looked embarrassed, and maybe a little upset. Her dark eyes gained a steely tint though, and her next words were stiffer. "I won't bother you, then."

She retreated back into the stand, setting the water down and sorting through what looked like garlic plants. Now that Kirby was paying attention, he saw that she was not alone. An older man and woman - likely her parents - stood towards the front of the stand and dealt with the customers. The girl - Khayla - she clearly worked in the back. To help her parents, likely. A family business.

Only after she'd turned away did Kirby register how tense he'd become. And for what? He cringed. He'd just been incredibly rude, hadn't he? No wonder she'd stopped talking to him - gods only knew what his expression must've been at that moment. She'd just... surprised him.

"Um, Khayla?"

She glanced over. "Hm?"

"I'm sorry... I didn't mean to... You surprised me. I didn't mean to be so rude."

She raised an eyebrow. "So, what's your name?" Grabbing the water cup, she offered it out to him once more. Quietly he accepted and sipped politely.

"I'm Kirby. Really, I'm sorry."

"You're new to the third galaxy, aren't you?"

"Third galaxy?"

"It's this strip of four solar systems under the same neutral laws. We're not really our own galaxy, but..." She shrugged. "It feels like it sometimes."

"Err, yes... how did you know?"

"Your eyes, of course." When confusion and a strange revulsion crossed Kirby's expression, Khayla hurriedly added, "blue eyes are very uncommon. Especially when they're so light."

"They are?" replied Kirby uneasily.

"Sure. Even if travelers have light skin like yours, they hardly ever have that color blue eyes. Where are you from?"

Somehow, he managed to produce the word without thinking much about it; "Dreamland."

"That's a planet?" Khayla scrunched up her nose.

"Oh, no - it's a town."

"So, which planet? I might know it, even if you're far away. I know a lot of planets."

"I... uhh... it's earth."

She laughed. "Well, yeah, but which earth?"

"There's more than one?" he asked. Somehow, though, he failed to be very surprised. Everything already was so new. Too much so: privately he wished to be back on the Halberd, just so he could think and process all that he had seen and heard.

"Kirby, everyone refers to his or her own planet as earth. It's just like saying 'home:' it's a general idea to cover someone's native planet." She seemed confused that he didn't already understand that.

"Oh..."

"You don't know the name?"

"No."

"How did you get here? Isn't that programmed to show up in maps or something on spaceships?"

"It probably is," Kirby said hesitantly. "My friend flew us here. I wasn't paying much attention when we were leaving."

"Should have guessed. I think you're too young to fly anyway..."

"Uh, yeah..." No need to mention that Marx wasn't more than a year older than him and, if Khayla was correct, was probably also too young to be flying a ship. _There were rules for that kind of thing?_ After an awkward silence, he supplied, "Dreamland isn't so big on trade between planets. I've never needed to know my planet's name." It was something he'd have to ask Marx later.

"I guess not."

"Erm... are you busy right now?" Since he had no idea where to start, perhaps she could give him an idea of where to go and what to get.

Her eyebrows shot up. "No! I mean, just one minute." With the speed of a rabbit running from the Dovahkiin, she hurriedly stuffed all the garlic-plants into a sack and turned to her parents. "I'll be back before nightfall," she promised each, in-between interruptions from customers. Kirby realized with a start that she had mistaken his question as an invitation to come with him.

"So, where are we going?" she asked after climbing over the wooden slate and joining Kirby.

Taken aback, he answered, "Well, I have to buy a lot of food, like I said before. But I don't recognize most of the foods, and I only have Dreamland money..." He dug out some of the coins from his pocket to show her.

"Wow." She twirled one coin in her fingers. "I've never seen money like this! This isn't pure gold, is it?"

"Yeah, it is."

Renewed amazement widened her eyes as she gazed at him. "Kirby, you're rich! Do you realize how much this is?" Then she winced and eyed the crowd nearby to ensure they hadn't heard her exclamation. Pickpockets were not uncommon.

"How much?" an equally bewildered Kirby asked.

She whistled softly. "Maybe you should put the rest of those coins away. We can talk with a banker. C'mon, I know a trustworthy one. Or at least, mostly trustworthy."

With that, she dragged him back into the mass of people. He was just as confused and lost as before, but she knew exactly where she was going, and had mastered the art of cutting through crowds. After several dizzyingly sharp turns and much rushing under the beating sun, they halted in front of a squat, windowless building. Instead of a door, the building's entrance was decorated with shimmery beads. They slipped inside. Though the building seemed poorly designed from the outside - merely blocks of sun-baked mud - it was both cool and quiet in the interior.

Only one man lurked in the back of the store, with hunched shoulders and sharp, narrow eyes. Everything in the room was adorned with dark purple, from banners, to the carpeting, to the sheet that was draped over a counter. The man stood behind this counter, inspecting his latest customers. Even he wore a dark purple cloak lined with silver. Marx would have liked the store, Kirby thought with a shadow of a smile.

Seeing how Kirby was eyeing the decorations, Khayla explained, "Purple dye is the most expensive, and hardest to get. It shows riches and royalty." She laughed a little. "I bet you could buy a purple cloak with one of those coins."

Kirby raised an eyebrow. Perhaps he shouldn't tell Marx about the store. If he learned that purple meant royalty...

"One of what coins?" the banker demanded. His voice matched his eyes in steel, both which contradicted sharply with his slow movements and bowed figure. This was a man accustomed to people trying to swindle him, and therefore responded to every statement with a suspicious authoritativeness. Also a man whom had spent one too many hours bent over precious gems and coins in examination.

"Don't scare him off, Ananke," Khayla surlily responded. "Maybe you'd get more business if you weren't so mean."

"Is that so? It doesn't seem to be working for you."

Khayla flushed angrily, but was wise enough not to retort. "He's a jerk, but at least he'll be pretty honest," she muttered to Kirby. "Go on, show him the coin."

The man, evidently called Ananke, swiped the coin as soon as Kirby held it out. Those critical eyes examined it carefully while his fingers turned it several times over. Not a single nick or smudge was missed under his gaze. At last, he weighed it thoughtfully in his palm. Whatever he found clearly pleased him - not that he smiled, by any means.

"I can offer you 2,500 cers. That's 500 more than the next banker will give you."

Kirby frowned. "2,500 sirs?"

"Cer," Khayla corrected hastily. "Kirby, that's amazing! How did you get so much money?"

"It's just Dreamland currency... How am I going to carry that many coins?"

"Notes," Ananke corrected. "Two one-thousands and five one-hundreds. Or I can give you twenty-five hundreds. I'm not giving you 2,500 cers."

"Sorry, what?" Kirby said. Were those supposed to be the same amounts? And didn't he just say the coin was worth that much?

"Cash money," Khayla explained. "it's kind of like paper, but they're called notes."

"So... it's the same amount?"

"What do you want? Two one-thousands and five one-hundreds, or twenty-five hundreds? " the annoyed banker scowled.

"Uhh..."

"Twenty-five hundreds," Khayla told him.

Ignoring any further conversation between the two, Ananke quickly set about counting out money.

"Kirby, you're filthy rich," Khayla whispered.

"Didn't know I was," muttered Kirby back.

"No wonder your town is called Dreamland."

"Do you think this is enough to buy all the food I'll need?"

"Should be, unless you plan to make a tower out of tacos or something. Is there anything specific you're looking for?"

"Um, I didn't recognize most of the stuff here, but I did see a bread stand." And what a relief it had been, to see something at last familiar. Many of the stands he'd passed on the way to the banker's sold a plethora of items he'd never seen nor heard of before. He wasn't even sure they were edible until he saw a customer buy a strange magenta 'fruit' and bite into it. Marx would be interested in the foreign foods, though - maybe he could buy one of everything. Kirby addressed Khayla, "could I afford it if I bought-?"

"Here," Ananke interrupted. "Twenty-five hundreds." A large stack of rectangular blue paper was held in his outstretched hand. Dubiously, Kirby accepted the stack and stared. Each piece of paper had a complicated stamp on with various black twirly designs and symbols he didn't recognize. Behind the stamp was a faded picture of a pale yellow planet - Nashira.

"So what were you asking?" Khayla asked as they left the store, hastily adding on that he should put away his money.

Kirby tore his gaze away and pocketed it. "Will this be enough to buy one of everything?"

Her dark eyebrows shot up. "One of everything? You're kidding, right?"

"No..."

She laughed. "It'd be very hard to, Kirby. This market is bigger than you think. It would take you days."

"Is it?" he said quietly, looking around at the chaos. It was large enough already in his opinion.

Noticing that he was still serious, Khayla said, "We'll start with the bread first. Then we can go looking at the other stands."

How she navigated the winding streets and lines of stalls, Kirby didn't know - it was a marvel to him. Yet somehow she lead him to a vender selling freshly baked bread. The loafs were still warm, and smelled strangely sweet for bread.

She greeted the vender cheerfully - did she know everyone? - and he responded with a good natured offer on his bread.

"Not today," she chuckled, gesturing at Kirby. "Kirby here's buying today."

"A foreigner, eh?" the vender grunted, scrutinizing Kirby.

In Dreamland, that title had a very negative connotation...

Something in his countenance must've given away his unease, for Khayla placed her hand on his wrist.

"Are you okay?"

His fingers clenched slightly; he stumbled over an apology, "I'm fine. I need bread."

"You're at the right spot," answered the bemused vender. "Better make your pick before the others get sore at you."

A hasty glance over his shoulder revealed to Kirby a line of impatient customers. He hurriedly purchased a sufficient amount, then allowed Khayla to lead him away.

"Let's get a cart," Khayla suggested, eyeing his armful of bread.

They soon found a stand of four wheeled wooden carts with handles- there had to be a stand for anything and everything here, Kirby thought - and he bought it using one of the hundred-notes. In return, he received another large handful of bronze coins and strange looks from the seller for his copious amount of money.

"I've never felt so rich," Kirby admitted in an undertone. "I don't even know if I like it."

"I'd easily relieve you of that trouble." Khayla held out a hand hopefully.

"Sure." Kirby paused so he could dig into his pocket, retrieve a few Dreamland coins, and hand them to Khayla.

Her eyes nearly popped in amazement. "I wasn't serious."

"What?"

She choked on her breath from having so much money in her palms, and hurriedly tried to shove it back at Kirby. "I can't take your money, Kirby! Gods, I was kidding!"

"I mean, you can have it..." he trailed off. "I won't need it all anyway."

"Oh no, no." Shaking her head, she forced him to take them back. "I can't accept that much from you - even if you do have a lot more."

Reluctantly Kirby pocketed the coins. It was not as if he really needed it: Khayla, clearly, had a much greater need than him. But it wasn't as if he could force her to take anything. Maybe he'd sneak a Dreamland coin in her parent's stand later...

A couple hours had passed and Kirby's pale skin had long ago begun to burn with the heat of the sun when the cart was at last piled high with foods of all sorts (at one point, they'd rearranged the items, since the bread started to get crushed at the bottom).

Kirby planned to walk with her back to her parent's stand, in order to set a coin where they'd find it for her generosity and kindness. Khayla had a different idea.

'C'mere Kirby - before we go back. There's one more place I want to show you."

"I think this is enough."

"Just one more place," Khayla promised. "You'll like it."

"Is it shaded?" Kirby asked hopefully.

"I'm sure we can find a shaded seat," she assured him. She set off down a wide alley that branched off from the road. He hurried after, not wanting to lose sight of her. They came upon a small stand at the end of the alley, where a long line of people waited. "Lefse," she told him, looking very happy as she got in the back of the line.

"Leff-suh?" he repeated.

"Yup! Lefse. It's one of the few good desserts that actually comes from Nashira."

"What is it?" Kirby asked, trying to peek around the line.

"Well, it doesn't sound too great, but it's a potato kind of tortilla that you spread chocolate and brown sugar and stuff on."

Kirby envisioned a potato with chocolate stuffed in the middle and cringed.

"It's better than it sounds," Khayla quickly repeated.

And after making one, Kirby realized how right Khayla was. They'd found a place to sit on a bench in the shade, and within minutes Kirby had entirely devoured the food.

"Wow," Khayla said, raising an eyebrow. "Hungry?"

"Hungrier than I expected," he admitted, looking back to the lefse stand with a hopeful look.

"If you eat another one, you'll make yourself sick," Khayla said flatly.

"I might be willing to make that bet..."

She snorted and it was quiet for a bit. Not necessarily a good quiet too: though Khayla was still eating, Kirby felt inclined to continue the conversation, only he didn't know what to say.

"So." Khayla chewed for a moment and swallowed. "Did you just stop by to stock up on food? Or are you staying longer?"

"Just food... I sort of travel a lot now, so we'll probably leave soon."

"Then you must see a lot of planets. I wish I could travel like that, but... with the war going on, we're not allowed to leave. Not that my parents have a spaceship anyway: they're much too expensive. Hey, you must have a spaceship!"

"Yeah; the Halberd. It's not really mine though." He paused. Never had he considered the Halberd's ownership, seeing that it truly was Meta Knight's. If, however, both he and Marx had stolen it like they had, would it make it theirs on equal shares, even if only Marx piloted? "Well, I guess I co-own it," he corrected hesitantly.

"That's so neat."

"If you want, maybe I could show you. Just take a loop around the planet or something." Why did he say that? He could make no such promise. Marx certainly wouldn't be jumping on the idea of showing off the Halberd to a random civilian...

To his great relief, Khayla turned down the offer. "No; thank you, though. I know it sounds a little weird, but I think I like it better with my feet on the ground. That way I can just imagine what it'd be like to be an adventurer like you. I'm too worried that if I really ever flew in a spaceship, it wouldn't be exactly like what I imagine. I'm sorry, that probably sounds stupid - wanting something but not really wanting to do it."

"No, I think I see what you mean."

Thick silence descended. It was amazing to Kirby that there could be such a silence when the sounds of the market buzzed all around them.

He wished to supply a more thoughtful remark, but digging through his repertoire of words, nothing that he thought would be really profound - or at least make Khayla feel less insecure - surfaced. Kirby's thoughts were governed by his own doubts. Was there normally such long silences? Often on the Halberd Kirby would not talk for long periods of time, but the quiet was generally appreciated - else Marx would fill the gaps by talking both to Kirby and to himself, not requiring responses aside from the ones he gave to his own statements. Kirby knew this was very different. It had just been too long since he'd had a conversation with anyone but Marx. Going around the market had at least given something for them to talk about, but now that they sat idly, he didn't know what to say.

"So, uhm, do you live here?" he prompted.

"Ya. We have a house in the second district. You already saw my parent's stand too. Their watermelons are so good - we get them fresh from this really nice trader. Do you want to go buy one for your trip?"

Quickly, he retorted, "I don't like watermelons."

"Oh." She ate the last bite of her lefse, looking away.

Kirby inwardly swore at himself. "Sorry - I mean, we can still go if you want."

"Sure, yeah!" She took up and helped him to his feet as well. Then she frowned. "Is something wrong? You look really pale..."

"It's nothing," he said, too quickly to be natural. Just memories.

"Is it the heat?" Khayla said worriedly, "Ugh, I knew lefse was a bad idea; it always makes people thirsty..."

"No, it's not that," he said quickly. "I..." A sudden shiver ran down his spine, as he sensed the other's presence even before the hands settled on his shoulders and thin fingers brushed his collar bone. As if he had been summoned by mere thought.

Kirby turned to stone. A noose tightened around his lungs, instantly choking off the words he was about to speak. Words that now seemed foolishly unimportant.

"Hey hey hey," Marx uttered with lethal softness. "And who might _this_ be?"


	3. Chapter 3

Meta Knight weaved through houses of broken metal facades, and darted between strangers, keeping his head low all the while. He knew this place had seen a vast industrial revolution, and he also knew it had long past its prime. For several days now, he'd wandered through the city in search of someone who could either supply him the materials to build a temporary ship, or who could give him a ride to a place that could. This city was his last (and only) hope, because Popstar was not exactly known for being technologically advanced. If this city couldn't help him… then it would take him another year to build another ship from scratch, and the makeshift ship wouldn't be up to par at all.

Gods, if only he had the Halberd. But if he had the Halberd… he wouldn't be in this miserable situation in the first place. His thoughts flitted back to Dreamland.

It had been what, two months since he'd left? Five months since Kirby had left… He gnawed his bottom lip.

Five months was such an incredibly short amount of time, once one had lived as long as he. Yet with each passing day, his anxiety deepened within him. Each marked another day for Kirby and Marx to blend into the infinite universe, to vanish from his sights entirely. Even now, the task of finding them seemed impossible - in five months, one could go to great lengths to disappear.

But 'giving up' was never an option. Time and time again he had been pushed to the wall, left with no alternatives, physically and spiritually defeated - and somehow, he had survived to live today. Even when things seemed most impossible... he always chose to fight on. Even when he wasn't sure what he was fighting for.

The nature of a warrior, he supposed. Something in him wouldn't let him give up. Though he desired peace, he craved war. It was this balance that somehow kept him alive, kept him going... fueled his determination. He sighed deeply.

He feared what he would find when he at last did reach his destination.

Now, though, he would be different. He'd gone about everything wrong. This time... this time he would be armed with the truth - he would not shy away from it for some twisted desire to let Kirby maintain his innocence, as it had only hurt him more in the end.

The question now was if he could-

"Won't somebody please help me? Please? Anybody? Does someone know how to fix a starship?"

That final word caught Meta Knight's attention. He paused in his tracks, causing a person walking behind him to curse at him and skirt around.

The desperate voice resumed, "it's just a small repair... I'd even pay f- No, please, I need help!"

Silently, Meta Knight followed the voice, parting through the crowd. His yellow eyes fixed upon a figure standing near a clutter of stone huts, wringing his hands and pleading with the indifferent passerbyers. The stranger wore clothes that blatantly set him apart from the others: Meta Knight would almost consider the outfit regal. He wore a deep blue hood lined by an unusual golden cog design, and ... were those ears? No, they must be part of his hat, but Meta Knight still didn't understand exactly why they were there.

In addition, he had a white cape and blue outfit. A white and blue strip of fabric, which Meta Knight could not determine to be a scarf or something else, was tied around his neck. Strangely enough, his wide innocent eyes were yellow.

Striding up, Meta Knight inquired, "You are in need of a mechanic?"

The stranger turned to him eagerly with his gloved hands clasped together. Though his mouth could not be seen, hope filled his eyes with obvious clarity. "Yes, yes- do you know anything about starships?"

"I spent many years designing and building starships. What is in need of repair?"

"Err... almost everything, sir." His yellow eyes darted away awkwardly before swiftly flicked back to Meta Knight. "I crashed on this planet and most of my ship has fallen apart. I was able to do some on my own, but I don't have the experience-"

Meta Knight held up a gloved hand, "say no more. I will help you."

The stranger bounced up and down on his heels. "Oh, thank you, thank you! Just name your price!"

"It is not money I am after, but a favor. Once your ship is repaired, I wish for a ride to the planet Mekkai."

"Oh, good! I mean; that's fine too. I'm heading that way anyway. I'm Magolor, by the way." He extended his hand cheerily. Meta Knight gave a brusque nod and shook.

"Meta Knight. Where is this ship of yours?"

"So, you'll definitely fix it?" Magolor said hopefully.

Meta Knight nodded and instantly Magolor's shoulders relaxed. "I'm so glad... This is the third day I've spent out here trying to find someone like you. I'm just about beat..."

"Your ship?" Meta Knight supplied.

"Right!" Magolor whirled around and trotted off between two houses. With his long strides, Meta Knight easily caught up and strode beside him. He let Magolor chatter away about god knew what, and maintained his own introspective silence. After only a few minutes, the hull of a medium-sized vessel loomed up from the hillside; pale and smooth-looking, like the belly of a beached whale.

"The Lor Starcutter," Magolor proudly announced as they reached it. "The finest ship to be built on my planet! Err... I know she doesn't look like much with all these broken parts, but just wait 'till you see her fly."

The architecture was nothing like Meta Knight had seen before, even with his extensive knowledge of starships. Hundreds of designs had passed before his eyes, not a single close to this. In fact, the proportionality was entirely unreasonable: the two light-weight wings would never support its heavy body, nor could the paddles jutting in a line down each side of the hull provide any benefit to flight. It would float in water, maybe... but fly? Meta Knight had his doubts, but at the same time he wasn't going to judge too quickly. The Halberd's design had also been looked upon as unreasonable and impossible, and its capabilities far exceeded many other battleships. This starship must also have its secrets. Of course, it also had a gaping hole in its bow, scratches down its sides, and broken paddles.

"And from what planet do you hail?"

"Halcandra," answered Magolor.

Meta Knight experienced a moment of disquiet at the fact he had never heard of such a planet before. Recovering himself, he asked, "is it uncommon for starships to be built in this way on your planet?"

Magolor nodded enthusiastically. "Pretty much. Lor is one of a kind. She can go through wormholes that would rip apart other ships."

Meta Knight's eyes shimmered emerald green. Going through wormholes - more commonly known as dimension swapping - was rare no matter where in the galaxies you went: even he had never been able to build a ship that wouldn't be destroyed in such a process. The technology wasn't just too advanced - it was also too unpredictable, too random. In the past, even if he managed to figure out a logical way to dimension swap a ship, some unforeseen element would dismantle the system and destroy it. Needless to say, he himself had never embarked on these test flights. "I would like very much to speak with the creator of the ship..." he murmured, more to himself than Magolor.

"Ah, about that..." Magolor scratched the back of his head. "I don't think they're still alive. Lor's pretty old. Probably older than you and me combined."

Meta Knight chuckled to himself. Doubtful. Though it was very disappointing the person who had built Lor Starcutter was no longer around. "Did they leave behind any notes or information about the ship?" he pried.

"Nada," Magolor replied, seeming uneasy with the topic. "Can you still fix it?"

Meta Knight nodded. Fixing it now had another benefit, especially if no notes remained: he could study the inner workings of the ship, learn about its architecture and how it functioned. Perhaps even how it managed to dimension swap. After all, he knew of only one other thing that enabled dimension swapping: and he couldn't exactly study it, as it was both part of his own body and had been created by magical means unable to replicate by his own talents.

"Thank you!" Magolor cried, wringing his hands together. "I'll get started fixing the online power right away, if you can work on the ship itself?"

"I will have to get some suitable tools from town," Meta Knight decided, eyeing some of the external damage. "When I return, I would not mind hearing more about the Lor Starcutter."

"Sure, sure! As soon as the online power is running! Err... please come back." Magolor nodded and inclined his head before jogging up the ramp and into the bowels of the ship.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Once Meta Knight purchased the necessary tools, he returned to the ship. Magolor was still in the control deck, or what Meta Knight supposed constituted the control deck for the Lor, dialing away at the keyboard and shaking his head at the enormous screen mounted on the wall, which flashed an angry red and displayed characters Meta Knight did not understand.

Though he did wish to inquire more about the ship - and perhaps where exactly Magolor was from that Meta Knight did not recognize his language, planet, or ship's build - but there would be plenty of time for that in the future.

Leaving Magolor to his work, he quietly tread outside again and studied the ship as a whole to determine where he wanted to begin. The worst damage was definitely at the bow of the ship: it looked as though Magolor had guided it into a dive and crashed into the planet, entirely mutilating the large star which adorned its bow.

And this was an accidental crash? Curious, Meta Knight's eyes drifted down the hull of the ship, examining its white belly for any sign of attack. Nothing that he could see, aside from the damage done by the crash itself. No holes that would evidence guns or cannons, no abnormal dents from being rammed.

Meta Knight shook his head and headed towards the bow. The vicious scratches down the sides and the broken paddles could be fixed later; he might as well begin with the worst damage. He let his wings unfurl, thinking to himself the irony of using them for such a trivial purpose, then flew up to the top of the bow for ceaseless hours of work.

At the close of the day, he'd learned an enormous amount about the structure of the starship: a basic concept of its entire skeletal structure, and the materials (some alien) that composed its hull, along with a better idea of how it maintained flight.

One thing he did not learn was how it dimension swapped. Magolor was very helpful, suggesting he look up unfamiliar elements and their attributes on the computer's database. So, as the darker shades of evening began to creep across the sky, he retreated to the inside of the ship.

Meta Knight took small chips from parts of the ship to run under the Lor's own scanner, and the results poured onto the screen: lines and lines of information, but all coded in the characters of Magolor's native language.

"Ah, sorry!" Magolor tapped several keys and the information swiftly retyped itself, this time in English.

Meta Knight leaned thoughtfully towards the screen, scanning each line. Magolor tugged on one of his 'ears' on his hat. "Err... I don't even know what half this means myself," he confessed as he too perused the information.

"You are startlingly ignorant of the workings of your own ship," answered Meta Knight distractedly.

The comment silenced Magolor and quiet reigned over the ship. After several minutes of scanning, Meta Knight pulled away with an indistinguishable sigh. The base elements of the ship were entirely unremarkable. Even ones that Meta Knight recognized as foreign - substances he had never come across before in his lifetime - lacked any special properties that would enable something as complex as dimension swapping. Therefore, it was not the design or materials - something else entirely governed that ability.

It was at this point in his musing that he noticed Magolor watching him intently from the side, with an unusual... thoughtfulness in his eyes; a depth that heretofore Meta Knight had not observed. However, as soon as the knight faced him fully, this depth was well concealed again.

"The elements show nothing out of the ordinary," reported Meta Knight shortly.

"What about magic?" Magolor suggested, again ever the helpful one. "Or would you be able to tell that from working on it?"

"Do you believe the Lor Starcutter is magic?"

"She might be. I, err... don't actually know much about that. I think it's possible though."

"Are your people commonly sorcerers?"

"Some are. I know a little bit of magic myself, but not much."

"..."

"What about you?" Magolor pressed.

"I have never dabbled in the magic arts... It is unpredictable and unnatural for me." Meta Knight fingered Galaxia's hilt; the sword, of course, had its own magical abilities, but beyond that it was steady and reliable. Consistent, where magic of any other sort was prone to fail him.

"They do say you're either good or bad at it. Magic picks who it likes."

"This would not surprise me," Meta Knight agreed. "As a warrior, my thoughts must always follow logical, tactical routes. Magic seems to require a level of... inconsistency."

Magolor laughed good-naturedly, "I have a friend who calls it 'open-mindedness.'"

"It is a useful and powerful art... only one I will never understand."

"Maybe that's why you can't figure out the Lor Starcutter then. It has to be magic: it can even tell the intentions of its pilot. The Lor won't work if it doesn't like you."

This news caused Meta Knight's eyes to briefly turn white. He raised an unseen eyebrow. "Is that so?"

Magolor nodded.

"Then magic may also be how it flies. Externally, the Lor Starcutter should be almost incapable of flight. Yet, it clearly is able to transverse dimensions and fly in space. Its light frame makes flight more reasonable, but I am beginning to think only magic could truly keep it in the air."

"Wow, you really do know a lot about ships."

"That was only logic," Meta Knight said dryly.

Magolor huffed. "But you do. Where did you learn so much?"

"It was my... job for many years to build and design them. Even after that, I retained my interest. It was something of a hobby."

"So, if you don't mind me asking... Why don't you have a ship yourself? With your talent, surely you could build one quickly?"

"I could build another," Meta Knight acknowledged, "yet there is a unique ship I have built that I fully intend to get back... one that was stolen from me."

"Heh, I'd hate to be the person you're looking for," Magolor remarked, eyeing Galaxia.

"You have no idea." His cape whirling around him, Meta Knight spun on his heel and stalked out of the ship. For several seconds afterward, Magolor gazed at the doorway through which he had departed, a confused and uneasy expression etched on his face.

It was much in this manner that Meta Knight and Magolor's correspondence continued. Meta Knight would show up at the rising of the sun and without comment begin work on the damaged vessel. Magolor would often come out and try to initiate conversation - early on, Meta Knight figured out he was a people person and was a little starved of companionship. Despite Magolor's eager attempts, the warrior's saturnine attitude usually managed to drive him away soon enough, fabricating some excuse to leave, and let Meta Knight continue his work alone. Then towards midday, Meta Knight would eat alone at the town before returning for more work.

It was a little lonely, but he much preferred it that way... especially in contrast to the unwanted attention he'd gotten in his last few weeks in Dreamland... Anyhow, it gave him much needed time to reflect. Evenings he specifically reserved for star gazing, and this he did most often by sitting atop the ship, where no one could reach him without having the capability to fly.

In one particular night, the breeze was cool on his half-furled wings and he slumped against the ship frame. He sighed and let his eyes slip closed, considering sleeping atop the Lor tonight. It wouldn't be much more uncomfortable than the room he'd rented back at the town, and at least here he would be in the fresh night air.

"Hey! Meta Knight! Hello? Still up there - what is he doing? - Meta Knight!"

One eye opened. He leaned over the edge and spotted Magolor waving eagerly up at him from the ground.

So much for a peaceful respite, then. Preferring to interrupt his comfort rather than yell stupidly down at Magolor, he dropped from the ship and landed neatly beside him.

Magolor's eyes widened and traced his wings back to his cape. "So that's how you get up there. I got you a..." he gestured vaguely at a ladder laying in the grass not far, but then shook his head. "You know what, that works a lot better. Never mind." His gaze lingered at Meta Knight's cape, which the knight had now folded around his body.

"Was there a reason for disturbing me?" Meta Knight asked.

"Other than me gawking at your wings?" Magolor chuckled, easily noticing Meta Knight's cold glare. "Sorry. I was hoping you'd want to eat dinner, on me! Or the Lor, if you want to be really accurate. I feel bad you're doing all this work and all I'm giving you is a lift to a planet."

"If you understood the importance of this 'lift,' you would realize it is your side of the bargain that is raw."

"... Right. Well, dinner?" Magolor rubbed his hands together hopefully.

Meta Knight sighed, and agreed. He followed Magolor through the Lor's doors, past the control room with the enormous computer screen. This was as far as Meta Knight had ever been, and he lagged behind Magolor in order to more carefully note his surroundings. Perhaps it was merely habit from the war, but he never overcame the tendency to examine new environments, regardless how innocuous they were. After all, in the war, there was no promise of safety no matter where one went.

Magolor lead him into an adjoining hall - though many lined the control deck - and through mostly indistinct hallways painted in a similar manner as to the outside of the ship, with many whites and blues, which reminded Meta Knight strongly of a bright sky and pure clouds. Personally, he found it a bit too bright, but would never dream of complaining. The ship in which one lived became one's home, and should rightly tailor to the captain's wishes, not any other.

What startled Meta Knight most, therefore, was the utter lack of decoration. Sure, it was brightly colored and evinced an overall cheerful outlook. But it lacked ornaments or personalized items. No pictures upon the wall, no trinkets, not a clock on the wall, nothing.

Even if Magolor only used this ship for shorter travels and did not care much for living in it, would there not still be some evidence of a life here? Though, depths of the ship still remained unexplored, and Meta Knight wondered if those hallways were also bare. He was hardy one to argue with Magolor anyhow, seeing that the Halberd itself had furnishings only in the rooms, and the halls were bare aside from the occasional picture taken from war-times.

Just as he was dismissing his concerns, something glinted at the corner of his vision and he halted abruptly, whipping around to face the perceived threat.

It was nothing but a small, equally bare side-room. And yet… He stepped across the threshold of the doorless room and that's when he saw it. Was that… an amulet? Like an ancient artifact, it was held in a glass case on display. The red ruby, adorned with gold, almost seemed seem to glow within its closed space, as if it possessed a will of its own. He leaned closer. The gold edges were intricately carved; at first he had thought the swirled designs surrounding the ruby were only that: designs and nothing more - but at a closer look he found paper-thin carvings twirling around the ruby; hundreds of them, minuscule in size, and the more he looked, the more he imagined they formed tiny runes and characters. He couldn't be certain, but they didn't look like the same characters that composed Magolor's native language.

"Sir Meta Knight? Hello? Are you-? Oh." Magolor joined him beside the amulet.

"What do those runes say?" he demanded.

"I don't really know," Magolor admitted, tugging at his scarf. "It's not mine."

Meta Knight shot him a stern look and Magolor jumped. "Oh no, no, I didn't steal it. It's my friend's. I'm sort of holding it for him."

"I see." Something struck him as odd about it... though he couldn't name it. An eerie feeling in his chest. Then, recalling their earlier discussion, he added, "is it also magical?"

"It is," Magolor said, surprised. "I thought you couldn't sense magic or anything?"

 _So did I._ Meta Knight turned away from the amulet. "Shall we continue?"

"Right!" Magolor hurried ahead of him. "C'mere, I have something really cool to show you! In here," he encouraged "is a machine I bet you've never seen. Or... maybe you have..." Pausing in the kitchen, he glanced back anxiously. "I hope you haven't. It's really neat."

"What machine?" Meta Knight asked just to humor him. The kitchen was the same indistinct kind as the rest of the ship. A simple table sat in the center of the room with chairs, and this really was the only indication of it being a place to eat. One counter lay against the wall, upon which sat an enormous square object resembling an oversized microwave.

Sure enough, Magolor went straight to it. "This machine. All you have to do, is close your eyes and imagine your favorite food. And _ping!_ it serves it right up. Look, I'll show you." Magolor closed his eyes demonstratively. Moments later, _ping!_ a china plate materialized, on which sat a gelatinous unidentified food. Or at least Meta Knight assumed it was a food.

"Does it tailor to any sort of food?" Meta Knight said uncertainly. "Or only Halcandran?"

"Hm…" Magolor eyed the machine. "Y'know, I don't really know. You'll have to find out."

That sounded promising. Meta Knight groaned. "I am not very hungry." He didn't really want to have to eat in front of Magolor anyway. Magolor would just sit there and wonder what was under his mask.

"Aw, c'mon Meta Knight. I'm treating you to dinner. All you have to do is think about your favorite food. You can't even complain about a small menu."

"The menu may include only foods I am incapable of consuming."

"Halcandra food can't be that different from Popstar's. I ate at the inn once." Magolor looked a little queasy at the memory.

"How consoling."

"Just try," wheedled Magolor. "You'll never know if you don't try."

This was absolutely ridiculous. Meta Knight stalked in front of the machine. He blatantly refused to close his eyes all mystical-like as Magolor had done. No, if this machine were going to give him food, then it would give him food while he glared daggers at it.

"You can't blow stuff up with your mind, can you?" squeaked Magolor. "Cuz, if you can, then maybe you shouldn't-"

_ping!_

Magolor jumped. "Ooh, what food did you think about?"

"Sugar," Meta Knight said shortly. Candy would tide over that sting of hunger: he needed nothing more. He opened the metal door and was met with a plate full of… Um. Well, he wasn't really sure what it was, but it certainly wasn't the toffies he had thought of.

"Oh, fuzzle pops!" Magolor declared happily.

"Excuse me?"

"They're fuzzle pops," Magolor said. "Something like your realm's 'marshmallows,' I think."

If marshmallows were triangular shaped and multi-colored, then yes, Meta Knight could see the similarity. "Hmmm…"

"I don't really see how that's a meal, though," Magolor frowned. "Maybe you should try to order something else?"

"No, this will be sufficient," Meta Knight said, hastily grabbing the plate of 'fuzzle pops.'

As they sat down at a nearby table, a very familiar resentment settled over Meta Knight's shoulders: he immensely disliked eating in front of others.

Since he would not remove his mask, it could become an awkward affair with the other person staring or asking intrusive question. Surprising, Magolor didn't so much as blink at him. Instead, he pulled down his scarf the slightest bit and happily popped bits of his green gelatinous meal in his nearly obscured mouth.

Meta Knight couldn't help his own concealed smile. So, he wouldn't have to endure irksome questions about his eating habits. Excellent.

Furthermore, after tentatively sampling one of those hideously named 'fuzzle pops,' he discovered that much like marshmallows, they seemed to be pure sugar. Perhaps Halcandran food wasn't so terrible after all, if they could do candy right.

All in all, the dinner was not nearly as insufferable as he had anticipated. Not only was his unusual method of eating not questioned, but also Magolor's ramblings required minimal responses. He even spoke fondly of his home planet, which evidently had many noxious volcanoes and sulfuric steam pools - none of which sounded altogether too pleasant to Meta Knight, but Magolor spoke of them with admiration. He also gushed over the otherworldly sights of the Halcandra sky: of the planets and stars you could see, along with the unique way that the horizon curved up and not down, as was the case with most planets of Meta Knight's dimension. In turn, Meta Knight spoke briefly of the planets he'd seen in his service to the army, such as the frozen ocean of Taalzak and the Northern Lights of Shiver Star. Magolor, then curious of Meta Knight's life as a soldier, wished to talk about his experience as a member of the GSA - inquiries to which Meta Knight adamantly responded with cold subject changes. This aside, the dinner was pleasant.

Only at the very end (as Magolor was licking his fingers happily) did Meta Knight quietly bring up that topic which Magolor had earlier been so silent over. "Does your computer provide a translator for runes?" he cut in to Magolor's appraisal of the food.

Magolor blinked. "Huh?"

"The Lor. You mentioned just now that it has some computing capabilities. I have some questions about that."

Magolor looked confused. "You want to translate… runes? What runes?"

"Those on the amulet you have in the hall. I find myself intrigued by their meaning, if even you do not know."

Magolor's face closed off. Tension snaked through the air. "I don't… No. The Lor doesn't have any such capabilities."

"Are you not curious?" Meta Knight pressed, for no other reason than the odd draw he'd felt towards it. In truth, it was none of his business. If Magolor acted uneasy about the whole deal, then it would be respectful to leave him alone about it.

Magolor's hands had frozen over his plate and his eyes avoided Meta Knight's. "I'm… that is…"

"Nevermind," Meta Knight said quickly. "I see it bothers you. I will not harass you further on the matter."

Magolor's eyes softened. "Thanks for understanding."

"I do have one more question, however."

Magolor stiffened.

"Can your ship connect with another from this dimension?"

"Connect?" Magolor echoed, instantly relaxing. "Like, pull up someone else's control deck on here and chat with them? Huh, I don't actually know. How do you do it in this dimension anyway?"

"Generally, each ship is outfitted with a long identifying code that represents its model and number. This code can be entered - if known - into another ship to initiate communication." Or so was the basic method, where the receiving party must accept the communication before connection was fully established. The 'polite' way, persay. The way that Meta Knight had no intention of using in this instance.

"Huh. Well, around Halcandra ships don't have long complicated codes. If there's a ship on your radar, you can just tell Lor to send a message to whichever ship you want and ask if they accept a line of communication. I've never tried it here, but might be worth a shot."

"And ships not on the radar?" he pressed.

Magolor frowned. "Well, if you know the name I guess you could ask the Lor. You might have to be more descriptive if there are many ships with the same name, though. Why, are you trying to find your own ship?"

"Precisely."

Magolor shrugged. "You may as well try. It might be within the Lor's capabilities. Just gimme a moment, okay? ThenI can take you to the control deck."

Meta Knight nodded and forced himself to wait patiently while Magolor cleared the dishes and tossed them into some sort of automatic cleaning device.

"There's the main screen. Obviously, heh." Magolor looked awkward. "You can just ask the Lor, like I said. If it works, the deck of the ship you're trying to find ought to appear on this screen."

"Very well. Would you please leave me for a moment?"

"Oh right! Privacy. So sorry. Good luck MK." He waved flippantly.

"Do not call me that."

"Oh. Um. Okay, good luck." He darted out and Meta Knight was thankfully alone.

Now remained the simple matter of calling to his ship. Which evidently was done verbally. Great. He was right about to talk to an inanimate object. He rolled his eyes. As if he hadn't talked to the Halberd before…

That was different, though.

Meta Knight cleared his throat awkwardly. "I… I would like to contact the battleship Halberd," he said clearly.

Nothing.

Perhaps the Lor's sense of other ships didn't work in this realm, after all.

"I wish to initiate communications with the battleship Halberd," Meta Knight articulated clearly.

Nothing.

"I wish to communicate with the battleship Halberd, identification number, 16095-43027."

No response.

Growling, Meta Knight tried one final time, "I want to open a line of communication to my ship, the Halberd!"

Abruptly, the enormous white screen flashed to life… And upon the screen was the unmistakable sight of the control deck of the battleship Halberd.

… But it was empty and dark. Nothing moved. Meta Knight instantly forgot his frustration. His hands tightened around his cape, digging into the fabric. The engines weren't running - he knew the sound of them, and now heard only a deathly silence.

It shouldn't be surprising, this empty silence. After all, what was the likelihood they would have stayed on the Halberd? Perhaps they were only parked upon another planet, refueling. Perhaps in a few days they'd be back in the air, and in trying to reach them a second time, later, Meta Knight would be successful.

But maybe not. What if, months ago, they'd ditched the Halberd on some unknown planet, and taken another ship, one which Meta Knight could not follow? If that should be the case, then the trail very likely ended with the Halberd. He had no way to track them further.

Meta Knight forced his eyes away from the screen - that empty dark room, once his, still his, overtaken. He forced away the terrible thought of them leaving the Halberd. Thoughts could destroy a person, and he would not allow that: would not allow his search to be dampened so early on. Thus, he shut off the display with full intention of calling again in a few days' time. He _would_ find Kirby.


	4. Chapter 4

"No, it's not that," he said quickly. "I..." A sudden shiver ran down his spine, as he sensed the other's presence even before the hands settled on his shoulders and thin fingers brushed his collar bone. As if he had been summoned by mere thought.

Kirby turned to stone. A noose tightened around his lungs, instantly choking off the words he was about to speak. Words that now seemed foolishly unimportant.

"Hey hey hey," Marx uttered with lethal softness. "And who might this be?"

"Kirby?" Khayla looked between the two of them, and Kirby could only imagine Marx's expression by the rotating fear and concern displayed on her face.

"Hm? I think I asked a question." His tone was mild and polite - but so forced, so _fake._

"This is Khayla," Kirby choked out.

Marx repeated the name to himself in a deadly susurration; twisted it, made it sour and unpleasant. His nails were digging badly into Kirby's shoulders.

Khayla cleared her throat. Somehow her eyes managed to briefly meet Marx's cyanide stare. "Yes," she put forth. "I was showing him around the market."

Paralyzed, Kirby could not warn her to lower her eyes and forget her bravery. If she only gave up without showing too much confidence or resilience, Marx would passively allow her to go about her way.

"Oh, that's so sweet." A gentle smile. The pain in Kirby's right shoulder faded, then he felt Marx's hand trail down his arm and clench around his own hand. The gesture was far from kind. Their fingers intertwined and Marx twisted his wrist just enough to make it ache.

Within the fear for Khayla was understanding; understanding for Marx's actions and words. You don't spend months alone with someone without learning something about their nature beyond what the world saw. The difficult part was diffusing the situation itself.

Usually it was just his own safety he'd have to defend, but now another was involved. "Why don't we just go back to the Halberd?" he murmured, careful to never transgress the line between suggestion and order.

"With Khayla. That's such a pretty name. Why don't we go back with Khayla?"

Khayla interjected, "I'm very sorry, but my parents want me back in time for dinner..."

"You know she's lying," Marx whispered in Kirby's ear again. The secretive comments and malicious glances clearly unsettled Khayla, and her soft brown eyes repeatedly flicked around at the crowd about them, as if someone would suddenly interrupt and save her.

Kirby's sweating fingers shifted anxiously between Marx's. He needed to do something, distract Marx, make him lose interest in Khayla. Otherwise it would be his fault if something happened to her, and he couldn't bear the thought that someone else would get hurt because of him. Not again.

"I... I really should be going..." Khayla stepped back carefully.

"Surely not so soon?" Marx's hand began to slip away as he moved to approach her. Upon impulse, Kirby tightened his fingers. At the same time, his left hand sought out Marx's, and he ensnared that one as well. The jester paused, allowing his anxious grip to hold him back, at least for a moment. For as long as it amused him, he imagined, for if Marx really wanted to do something, Kirby didn't think he could ever successfully stand in his way.

"We'll see her tomorrow," Kirby stumbled over his words, not knowing exactly what he was saying but hoping it was better than nothing. "M-Maybe then? I can tell she's busy today... And, and uhhh...D-don't we want to be alone?" His trembling thumb hastily trailed over Marx's pointer finger.

He'd never said something like that before. It was a stupid comment.

It wasn't like they hadn't been alone for the past five months. Stupid comment. His devastated, embarrassed thoughts hurried to rectify themselves with another, more accurate argument, but before they could, Marx hissed,

"Is that a promise?"

It took Kirby a moment to realize he meant seeing Khayla again the following day.

"If we stay near the town overnight, right?" he replied weakly. "We can come back to the market, if you want." Postponement rather than secession, but it was the best he could do. Kirby hoped Marx would simply lose interest, as he was apt to do.

Marx's breath, strangely cool against Kirby's sun-warmed skin, blew lightly across his ear. He remained frozen in that position, providing no indication if he'd liked what Kirby had said or not. Kirby didn't dare speak again, and prayed Khayla would not either. If they were all to walk away without injury, they had to let him make the decision to do that on his own time: Marx despised people rushing him, or trying to influence him. Thankfully, she had the sense to keep quiet.

Then Marx chuckled lightly, causing a shiver Kirby could not suppress, like hundreds of small beetles were crawling down his back. "Look at you both; so nervous. I was only being social, and this is what I get for it? Alright alright..." The cold breath on his ear vanished, fingers slid out from between his, as Marx stepped back. "We'll leave you alone, then. Kirby?"

Mechanically Kirby bid Khayla goodbye. Before she could respond, Marx tugged him away: Kirby quickly had to snatch the cart and wheel it after them. Not a word passed between the two all the way through the city, causing Kirby's heart to drop to his stomach: rarely was Marx so quiet. Only once they marched through the gate did Marx release his hand, and then he wandered several steps ahead.

"At least you're not completely useless. You did get the food," he remarked as they walked down the dirt path, eyeing the cart.

"I managed to get everything," Kirby replied softly.

"As if it's hard to buy food! Ha - you didn't have to go in for a meeting with the earl." Marx reached one inquisitive hand into the cart and pulled out a slice of bread at random. After some suspicious examining, he crammed the piece into his mouth.

"Did it go well?"

Marx stopped sharply. Startled, Kirby stopped as well and glanced back at him.

His face scrunched in disgust and he narrowed his purple eyes. Very slowly, he spat the now wet lump of bread into his palm and set it atop the remaining bread in the cart.

"It was easy," Marx scorned, "they wouldn't even let me speak to the earl - busy with something else, I guess... and his advisor believed every word."

The saliva covered bread was beginning to flatten out atop another slice, unable to maintain its sphere shape. Kirby's lip curled up slightly and he shrank back. "Marx!"

"Eh?" Marx turned around to discover Kirby was not at his heels. "C'mon. The Halberd's just up there. It's too hot to stop here."

Kirby pointed at the bread accusingly. "Just... ugh..."

"It tasted bad."

Because that totally justified it. "If you didn't like it, you could have put it by the road or something."

"I was thinking I should put it with the other bread. You know, that way it's with its own kin."

"Could you please move it back? I don't want it on the rest of our food."

"Ew no. That has my saliva all over it."

Kirby sighed. "That's sort of why I don't want to deal with it."

"Hm." Marx grinned lopsided at him, the left side of his mouth smiling much wider than the right. "Consider it your punishment."

"Punishment for what?" Kirby asked. Exasperation began to set in, as it usually did. Arguing with Marx tended to be a useless endeavor. At the very least, he thought bitterly, Marx enjoyed these banters enough to never threaten Kirby during them.

"For buddying up with the enemy, of course."

It took Kirby a moment to understand. "Khayla's neutral though: everyone here is. Doesn't that mean she's on our side, since we're neutral?" He cast Marx a curious look, then finally turned to the bread in the cart. By picking up the bread underneath Marx's half chewed one, he could move both onto the side of the road without touching it. He felt bad for the next person that would walk along the path to find that.

Both then continued up the ramp to the Halberd. With a mechanical hiss and click, the door closed behind them. As usual, the ship welcomed them back by causing the bright white lights along the hall to flare into life as they walked by.

"I didn't mean that kind of enemy," Marx resumed, leading Kirby to the kitchen.

Abruptly, the jester's playful tone soured. A single glance over his shoulder contained all the warning Kirby needed, but the resulting cold words only strengthened the threat; "I didn't say you could talk to anybody else."

Subdued, Kirby answered, "I'm sorry."

"For what?" Marx took a step toward him. His head tilted to the side, like a curious puppy. Miraculously, his expression managed to look nothing like a curious puppy.

"For talking to her," Kirby said, perhaps too rapidly.

Marx giggled. "No, you're only sorry I showed up."

Kirby bit his lip and narrowed his eyes. "... You shouldn't have scared her like that," he dared to say. "You could have just told me to leave. I would have."

"Scare her? I have no idea what you're talking about." And then he was smiling again.

Kirby knew this game, and knew well Marx could keep it going long after he'd given up on squeezing the truth out of him. In the past, he'd tried to fight Marx's false denial to its end. If anything, his resilience only encouraged him further; provided some sort of fuel to taunt him.

Nonetheless, he made one vain attempt; "You know. In the market - you purposely frightened her."

"I would never do that."

Exhausted, Kirby relaxed his fists, which he hadn't even noticed were clenched until then. "Please Marx... I don't want to go through this. I'm serious," he pleaded softly.

"Go through what?"

"This. Your, your acting - just... never mind. It's nothing."

Marx had this eerie way of looking at Kirby, like he planned to leisurely sacrifice him at a sacred altar, and every second of his pain would be harvested for his own gratification. It was this look he now wore on his face.

He placed his hand on Kirby's cheek; the touch, as always, frigid and unnatural. Nothing like it was really supposed to be. Its eerie claw-like feel had become too familiar, however, to strike Kirby as odd. Marx's other hand ensnared the front of his shirt and he pulled the blonde closer. Without further pretense or prelude, he forced his mouth against Kirby's. Past experience proved he didn't exactly know the meaning of the word 'gentle' - Kirby had quickly adjusted to this fact, both out of necessity and the fact he knew no other way it was done.

This time, however, Marx made some effort to be more considerate on Kirby's behalf. _That's right, give up; I'll reward you._ He probably should have appreciated the effort, which was not likely to be repeated soon, but recognized the gesture for what it probably was.

He moved his head away insolently. "I wish you hadn't scared her."

Marx snorted disapprovingly, pushing Kirby away. "And what makes you think I care what you want?" Within seconds he occupied himself with scavenging through the cart's contents, entirely ignoring Kirby.

It was a cutting statement, but not unfamiliar. Kirby dared to test the waters beyond it. Always his fear bound him in place, yet the longer he remained with Marx, the more he could study him from a detached point of view. Fear and uncertainty were ever present - but so was this scientific-like distance, that enabled him upon the occasion to survey the other's actions with an emotionally unaffected logic. Growing with this detachment were unexpected urges to test his limits when he, Kirby, wanted something Marx was apt to refuse. It just had to be when they were alone. It couldn't be by other people, where Kirby might be responsible for another's life. He considered himself solely responsible for his own.

"I think you do care," Kirby put forth. They were by a city... He wasn't going to push it too far though. He just wanted answers.

"Oh?" Not even deigning to look at Kirby, Marx tossed the bread carelessly into a cabinet and began munching on some nameless snack with a pleased expression: apparently, he did like the foreign foods, as Kirby had expected.

"Yes," Kirby retorted; half relieved Marx didn't appear angry, half afraid the calmness was faked, half dreading a sudden mood change.

"Care about what, specifically?"

He felt strange saying it aloud. "Me."

Rotten grin, "Of course I do, Kirby. Do you want me to say it?"

Kirby lowered his chin, instantly guarded. He was determined to maintain this fragile hold on the conversation; to keep himself purely emotionless, since that way he could have some small fragment of control. "Only if you're being honest."

Immediately Marx set aside the snack. His hands clasped politely behind his back. The position looked hideously like a child's as it recited lines in school - recited something he had practiced countless times before, but knew not the meaning. Carefully, clearly, he articulated; "I love you, Kirby."

Kirby winced and had to force himself to continue. "I mean it. I think you really do. Not... not love, maybe, but..."

"But pure, unconditional love. Oh, when I look in your eyes, I feel as though I am seeing a vast and beautiful sea, and I wish to share my joy with you for all eternity-" Marx squinted his eyes and held his hands out in front of his face, as if truly beholding an object of infinite awe. Still nothing more than an object, however.

Kirby ignored the comment. "When I was talking with Khayla, when you found us, I thought it. Why else would you have made such a big deal over it?" Given the sensation he might be right - and perhaps now that he started, he had to continue - he plunged on, "You were jealous. It wasn't just to scare her or anything: it was your way to deal with jealousy."

"How cute," Marx crooned. His arms folded neatly across his chest as he surveyed Kirby with one eye squinted and the other open wide. "Is this your weird fantasy; your insane overprotective boyfriend gets jealous over every person he crosses on the street?"

"No... I just want the truth."

"The truth, Kirby, is that I heard part of your conversation. Myep, looked to me like it might be getting a little personal, heading in a direction we don't want, maybe?" His voice took on a cold edge. "Well well well, Kirby... I was trying to soften the fall for you, but you like to dig your own grave, don't you? Of course I stopped you and put on that stupid act. A little fear will keep her out of our business, since you so trustingly drew her toward it. First stranger you meet and you're ready to spill all our secrets, are you? What did you plan to tell her, eh? That your mean ol' boyfriend is unfair to you? That you miss your old home? Or maybe..." Marx leaned in for dramatic effect. Dread flowed through Kirby's veins. He knew what Marx was going to say before those poisoned words slithered from his lips; "Maybe, that you felt oh so terrible and oh so guilty... because you once knew a nice, pretty girl like her, oh yes; that you were great friends! - until you fucked it up and got her killed?"

Kirby reeled away. The detachment vanished, devoured rapidly with guilt and horror. Satisfied, Marx continued sorting the foods in the cabinets, more or less where they belonged. Every once and a while he would help himself to bits and pieces, remarking to himself if it was good or bad.

For several minutes Kirby only watched him. It took a while before he was sure he could speak without his voice wavering.

"So... how did your day go?"

"Well, like I said, the advisor believed everything I told him. That was easy enough. What really bothers me is that they wouldn't give me a map for Halcandra. Idiot shopkeeper I went to talk to said the planet didn't even exist, which is a flat lie, because I know it does exist. 'Course, I filched a few books from the library that could be helpful, but still…"

"Wait, what?"

"What?"

"I thought... Is Hal- err, is that planet... We're trying to find out about where I came from, aren't we?"

"Well, of course."

"Do you think I might be from that planet - Halca… Halcran...?" asked Kirby, startled. The planet had never been mentioned before. That they were even looking for it was news to him.

"Halcandra, and no," Marx laughed. "I have a friend there and err, he might be able to help us. Yes."

Kirby wasn't particularly inclined to believe Marx, judging by his speech patterns. Especially as he ended with that familiar short 'yes,' which he'd long ago determined to not be a speech quirk but rather a self-satisfied yes, that sounds right, well done. Pointing out his lie certainly wouldn't help, however.

"Oh, okay. How will he help us? Does he know who I am?" ... And what did Marx want with the planet?

Marx nodded. "I've told him about you, you see. He's told me he might know something about your parents."

By no means was Kirby's doubt abated. Nonetheless, if Marx didn't want to give straight answers, then straight answers would not be given.

"Oh, okay," he repeated.

"But the shopkeeper I talked to said it didn't exist." He sighed. "I'll have to get fuel for the Halberd and talk to someone who's not an idiot. In fact..." Marx tapped his lips thoughtfully, narrowing his eyes. "Why am I doing this for you? Here - you put away the food. I'll hunt down a map-keeper! Make something delicious while I'm gone."

With this, Marx shoved ingredients into Kirby's hands and darted out of the ship.

Resigned, Kirby took stock of everything he'd purchased that day and started with sorting it all into compartments of the Halberd, occasionally having to move something that Marx put away - like the juice he'd placed in the freezer and the peas he'd placed in a cabinet. His thoughts returned to Marx's statements about Halcandra.

Kirby was no idiot. Perhaps, at first, he had been. No - he knew he had been. Back in Dreamland, and when they'd first left... it had always shocked him, the ease and frequency with which Marx lied. He was not so foolish any more, however.

Whatever Marx's intentions were, they had little to do with him finding out about his past. Worse, he was also under the impression that Kirby did not care any longer himself - that he'd simply follow Marx unquestioningly.

This assumption was reasonable, considering Kirby had done nothing to convince him otherwise. He avoided talking about Meta Knight as much as possible, and never mentioned again that when they'd left Dreamland Marx had even said it was all for him. But privately, quietly, he nurtured the unspoken hope of learning those mysteries. And this hope, unbeknownst to Marx, only grew.

Even landing on Nashira had strengthened it... For while this foreign planet was terrifyingly new, too crowded, too hot... it was also... amazing. Kirby could think of no other word for it. It gave his speculation of the universe a distinct, real layer: a true impression of a world entirely different than the one he knew, yet still achingly similar.

Somehow, it had really made him realize that he wasn't truly from Dreamland, nor did he truly belong on the Halberd. There was... a place out there. Somewhere in the enormous universe was a place he belonged. And with the Halberd, they had the means of finding it - if he could only convince Marx to search for it.

Kirby thought back to what Khayla had said, about blue eyes being uncommon, even for foreigners. He'd never thought about it before... but they also had been rare on Dreamland. Brown and green were the most common colors, but a few others had blue eyes, so Kirby hadn't really thought about it. Whenever the discussion of eye-color came up, most the kids - including Kirby - were preoccupied with Escargon and Meta Knight's unusual yellow eyes. Primarily the fact that Meta Knight's changed color occasionally.

And Marx's eyes were abnormal, Kirby thought to himself. He'd already decided Marx wasn't from Dreamland, though - between his preexisting knowledge of the 'outside', his late arrival to Dreamland, his ability to fly a warship, among many other factors - it was obvious he was from somewhere very different. Where he was from, now... Kirby had no idea to that. He began to wonder for possibly the hundredth time if Marx would give him a straight answer if he asked.

Then his thoughts ended instantly. His hands froze, still clutching a water jug. Had that been...?

No sounds. The ship was silent as death, devoid even of the soft humming of the engines, which Kirby had grown to take comfort in, since there was no point in having them on.

That must be it, Kirby thought to himself. The complete silence unnerved him, so it made him imagine sounds that weren't there. Yes that had to be-

He heard it again: three dull bangs, sounding from down the hall. Kirby set down the water and turned. His heart quickened in his chest. He couldn't tell if the noise came from inside or outside the ship. How long had Marx been gone? Surely this wasn't one of his cruelly conceived pranks? They always managed to scare Kirby no matter how much he expected them...

Slowly, he walked to the doorway and poked his head into the hall. The first light above him flickered on. The end of the hall was too dark for him to see anything. "Marx?" he called out. Silence answered him. Oh, he did hate how quiet it was. He missed the sound of the engines. It was so unusual for him to be so high-strung...

He stepped into the hall, allowing the next light to burst to life.

Then loud banging filled the hall, and Kirby leapt away from the door. Someone was trying to get in.

He eyed the device to open the door uneasily. Marx knew the password, so it couldn't be him. But who else would come?

Whomever it was pounded on the door again. It wasn't like Kirby could just ignore them... not if they were so insistent. And maybe they needed something. Maybe it had nothing at all to do with he or Marx.

Unsure, his hand hovered over the security pad. Then, hesitantly, he typed in the 3_037 code. The door slid up into the ceiling.

Four soldiers, similarly dressed to the ones which had escorted Marx on their arrival to Nashira, loomed on the Halberd's ramp. The one in front, bearing an enormous great-sword across his back, glanced down at Kirby with stern eyes shaded by his helmet. He studied the blonde carefully, then stated blatantly,

"You're not Captain Maruku."

It took Kirby a moment to process. Captain Maruku? Then it hit him and he stuttered out a delayed response, "Uhh... no."

"Is he on the premises?"

"Prem-? No, he left." _They were looking for him._ Carefully Kirby studied the other soldiers; each in full armor, with some weapons on their back or hip. Each prepared for a fight. _What did he do?_

"Left?" The soldiers swore quietly to himself. "Where has he gone?"

"Uhm," Kirby's palms suddenly felt unnaturally sweaty. "I-I don't know. What's wrong?"

"He said nothing pertaining to where he was going? No hints, nothing?"

"No, nothing! Why? Who are you?"

The lead soldier unhooked a strange black box from his belt and muttered something into it before clipping it back. His stern gaze fixed back on Kirby.

"First we better learn who you are."

With the slightest twitch of his fingers, the three soldiers behind him brushed past Kirby and entered the Halberd.

Kirby rounded on them, narrowing his eyes. The Halberd was sanctuary - or so Kirby had begun to view it. It wasn't to be violated by some strangers. He growled, "You're not allowed here! What's going on?"

"We'd better sit," the lead soldier suggested, gesturing to the inside of the ship.

"You're trespassing," Kirby shot back. Behind him, the soldiers were scouring the first deck. The sound of their feet upon the floor chilled his skin. He didn't like this. Not at all.

"We're not going to hurt you, son. What's your name?"

"Get out of our ship." Worried, yes - but also far too uncomfortable with the idea of these soldiers barging in like this.

"Sure." The lead soldier commanded the others to leave, and they poured back out onto the sand. "We aren't here to hurt you. We're just trying to do our job. Now, what is your name?"

Kirby gazed uneasily at the amassed soldiers. "What is this about? Why are you here?"

"We have reason to believe Captain Maruku landed on this planet on false pretenses and bypassed normal security measures. This may just be one huge misunderstanding... But we do need to bring him in for questioning."

"What? No! How...?"

The lead soldier nodded grimly. "Answer all of our questions honestly, and you may be released with no charges. If you try to withhold information, we will have no choice but to consider you an enemy to the law."

Kirby's mouth went dry. "I'll answer." He didn't know where to be truthful. Where to lie. How to lie.

"Good. Did you or did you not arrive today with Captain Maruku?"

"I did."

"What did you believe was the purpose of your trip?"

"Just supplies - we just needed to restock, all our supplies were running out."

"To your knowledge, does Captain Maruku have any alliances in the war; serving Nightmare, the GSA...?"

"N-none, he's neutral."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive."

"Good. Do you know him by a different name than the one we've provided you with?"

Kirby swallowed. "No. I uh... I call him Marx though."

"Is there anyone else aboard?"

"I'm alone," Kirby confirmed.

The leader nodded. "You seem innocent to me. Protocol requires us to take you in for more questioning, though. Come with us, please. We promise that you'll be released once we're positive you had no hand in the fraud."

"Wait - what's going to happen, I mean... I..."

"Just come with us; everything will be explained."

"N-no, I mean, what's his punishment going to be?"

"Please calm down, mister... err..."

"Meta Knight," he said reflexively.

"What did you just say?"

"My name is Meta Knight and... and I demand you answer!"

Placing another identity - a mask - over his face unexpectedly bolstered his self-confidence. He wasn't himself; this illusion was not him. So anything he said or did could not have personal repercussions. Vaguely, he wondered if this was what Meta Knight felt like every day behind his own metal mask.

The other soldiers were meanwhile experiencing their own revelation and shock. Before Kirby's startled eyes, they collapsed to their knees. Helmets were removed, heads were bowed.

"THE Sir Meta Knight?" their burlier leader breathed, his being the only gaze that was not fixed on the ground.

Now this was a compromising position. Kirby highly doubted there was more than one Meta Knight, so the stoic warrior he knew must've come to this planet and done something memorable... Yet not enough that any of the officers recognized him by appearance? After all, Kirby and Meta Knight looked nothing alike. Kirby could perhaps pretend he was merely a boy named after Meta Knight, but immediately he dismissed the idea. If he impersonated the real Meta Knight, he might just hold enough influence to save Marx from whatever sentence would be laid upon him in the case he would get caught.

"Yes," Kirby said in the most authoritative voice he could muster, "I am Sir Meta Knight."

"Our humblest apologies, sir, we didn't know..."

"It's okay," replied Kirby. It sounded horribly unprofessional and un-Meta Knight like to him, though luckily the guards didn't seem to notice anything odd. Trying in vain to settle his nerves and sound assertive at the same time, he continued, "I am more disappointed in the sentence against Captain Maruku. He is fully neutral on the war - and while I did not know of his treachery in entering his planet, I uh... I assure you he doesn't support any side in the war." _Yeah, that,_ his sarcastic thoughts cut in, _thanks, Marx. Maybe I have learned something._

"Understandable, sir. We will try to clear his name as soon as possible. This may have only been a misunderstanding, but we still have to investigate into the matter. If you would please come with us, sir..."

So even Meta Knight wasn't entirely above the law. Too afraid to protest, Kirby nodded his head with faint dignity. "Very well."

They made a solemn nighttime procession. Two soldiers walked in front of Kirby, two behind. Despite their obvious respect towards him (rather, towards who he pretended to be), he couldn't help feeling like a prisoner himself. Many a curious citizen would glance through their window and watch as he passed, only fueling his self-consciousness and doubt. Maybe he shouldn't have impersonated Meta Knight: someone was bound to know him personally, then they'd be able to tell instantly Kirby was not the warrior. Also, he had no idea what to do when they got to where they were going.

His dread thickened as his feet bore him closer and closer to their destination: the hulking mass at the far end of the village, which had to be the earl's castle, and laid over the land like a sprawling beast. Unlike King Dedede's castle, it was low but broad, with thick mud and brush walls.

They paused at the door, which was a deep black and jutted awkwardly from the walls. After knocking thrice, it opened for them.

The inside was a vast contrast from the outside. The wide hallway they led Kirby down was indeed low-ceilinged, but also brightly lit by lines of flickering candles upon the walls. No paper or paint covered the dirt walls, but they were compact and strong, and purple banners were hung all along the passage, which matched the carpet. Royalty.

With no windows and solid dirt walls, Kirby would have expected the place to be grim and dark, yet somehow those candles illuminated the hallway perfectly. It was a modest, but regal, place. Immediately he felt as though he did not belong. A trespasser, entering on false pretenses.

The only door in the establishment appeared to be the front door. To pass in between hallways and rooms, one merely had to walk through an archway. This struck Kirby as odd, primarily because that seemed like poor security. He wasn't about to ask, though: it would only cast unwanted suspicion on him.

At last, they passed through the final archway. An enormous room yawned out from this archway. The high, sloped ceiling had to be the top of the entire building, Kirby assumed, because it stretched a little over twice as tall as the corridor. If earls were anything like kings... then this was the earl's throne room. The tall walls were decorated with long purple banners, with the same black swirled designs which had been on the notes.

The purple carpet flowed up crudely carved but compact steps and ended at the foot of what must be the throne - the most extravagant thing in the room, though not as ornate as Dedede's had been. Upon the throne, however, was a man with a mere aura that commanded more respect than King Dedede ever had.

His black eyes, gazing out from his dark face, commanded loyalty and exuded intelligence. His back was ram-rod straight, and his arms calmly rested upon the throne. He wore no crown. Kirby couldn't imagine he would need one. His appearance was at once intimidating and awe-inspiring.

"My earl." The leader dropped gracefully to one knee and bowed, placing his sword hand over his heart. The earl had not cheated this respect from him: he had earned it.

Kirby's fear of the earl, though not abated, was overshadowed by the deep shame which tightened around his heart. Unknowingly or not, he had taken on a name which demanded respect from the soldiers - a respect that he had done nothing to deserve. Who was he to stand before this earl?

"Commander R'hazek," the earl acknowledged, going so far as to incline his own head towards the lead soldier. The earl's piercing black gaze met Kirby's hesitant blue ones. In that single second, Kirby's resolve shattered. _I know you,_ those eyes seemed to say, _do not even try to lie to me. I know what you've done._ Perhaps it was mere imagination, though; for after a brief moment, the earl glanced away and Kirby realized his stony expression hadn't changed.

"Earl Kavika," the soldier - commander - spoke, rising to his feet, "my men discovered-"

The earl lifted his hand. "My messenger has told me the details. Is this the captain?" The question was more asked as requisite than to really seek an answer. He seemed to already know.

"No, my earl. This is none other than Sir Meta Knight... innocent, of course, but unwittingly brought-" Commander R'hazek halted. The moment the name 'Sir Meta Knight' had slipped from his lips, the earl's controlled countenance changed. His eyebrows arched, black eyes widened. "My earl...?"

"Sir Meta Knight?" The earl stood from his ornate throne, purple cloak rippling with the movement. "You are not Sir Meta Knight."

His insides froze. No doubt in those words, only unmoved credence. The earl's black eyes were flinty as they examined Kirby in a new light. The people in the room collectively shifted; he felt their stares upon him and his own vulnerability. _Oh god where is Marx when I need him?_

 _Trying not to get caught like you, idiot,_ he thought to himself, the words taking on a Marx-ish tone.

"I-I..." his mouth went dry.

The earl strode towards him, stopping a few feet away. "Yes, I'm sure of it. Sir Meta Knight looks nothing like you."

Kirby's words were a bare whisper, "I'm sorry... My name is Kirby. I'm… not Meta Knight."

"I know this." The words, though stiff, were not hostile. The earl glanced back to Commander R'hazek. "Where did you find him? What has he to do with this?"

The commander, still recovering from the truth of Kirby's identity, tore his gaze from the blonde. "He was on the unregistered ship, my earl."

Those black eyes returned towards Kirby and searched his face thoughtfully. "You are involved in an attack against Nashira?"

"N-no. I don't know anything about that. There's been a mis-"

The doors crashed open, causing Kirby to skitter back in surprise, and a messenger raced through, his hair flyaway and eyes wide. His report was punctuated with panting breaths; "Earl Kavika... a sentinel was killed... the captain escaped... somewhere by the flats... "

The earl spun on his heel, purple roles swirling around him. "R'hazek..."

The commander nodded before calling several of the gathered soldiers by name to follow after him. They raced out of the door, leaving only the messenger, the earl, Kirby, and four soldiers; two which flanked Kirby.

"What other information do you have?" the earl demanded.

"Just what a civilian told me... The sentinel tried to talk to him, and out of nowhere he stole his sword and stabbed him..."

Expression grim, the earl turned to Kirby, his eyes searching. However, he asked nothing.

Several minutes passed in stiff, terrible silence. Earl Kavika was unnaturally silent, and his dark eyes even looked slightly melancholy. It occurred to Kirby that as much as it seemed like the number of soldiers was infinite, there really couldn't be that many of them. After all, he'd sent Commander R'hazek's same troops to hunt down Marx even after they'd fetched Kirby.

Which meant... he'd probably known the dead sentinel. Kirby inwardly groaned. The knowledge only made him feel worse. The wait was excruciating, between feeling guilt over the entire situation, and dreading what punishment or injury might await Marx - or him.

Finally, many footsteps were heard coming down the hall. Commander R'hazek appeared first, and took his place near the earl. A few guards entered next, several sporting minor injuries...

And in stalked Marx, looking unrighteously displeased. Handcuffs kept his hands firmly behind his back, which the two guards holding him seemed to have little faith in, as both of them gripped Marx's arms more tightly than was really necessary. Upon his face Marx wore one of his ugliest faces: lips curled back, eyes narrowed. Even his jester hat, slicked down his back, looked like an feral animal's ears pinned down. The look was of such brutal intensity that Kirby did not at first notice his injuries. That is, until the trio halted several feet from Kirby. The candlelight illuminated a thick splash of blood down the left side of the jester's outfit - this he guessed wasn't Marx's blood. But there was also a deep gash on his right calf, and it was clear he favored this leg.

Kirby could smell the red substance. He shuddered.

The earl prowled closer to Marx. "So, you are the captain." Again, stating a question with no real need of an answer.

"Let. Me. Go."

"I only needed answers, Captain Maruku. But when I sent soldiers after you, you killed one and injured others. Clearly this is more than a simple deception. If you even hope to be freed, then you'd better explain yourself to me."

A low growl emanated from Marx's throat. Kirby could see his thin fingers clenching and relaxing again and again behind his back. His expression clearly emanated his burning hatred and refusal to speak.

Earl Kavika shook his head. "Put him in the dungeons; if he wishes to speak later he may. Now... we will need to search the ship."

The guards hauled on Marx's arms, but his legs suddenly turned to jelly and he sank to his knees with a groan. Perfect dead weight. "Get up," a guard snapped, yanking upwards so hard it was a miracle his shoulder didn't get pulled out of place. Marx just slumped and resisted the pressure.

"Lazy ass." The other guard knelt to grab his arm with both hands - and that's when Marx struck. He twisted his torso, lunged like a snake, and sank his fangs into the guards wrist. While he cried out and recoiled, and first guard attempted to pull him away. Hissing, Marx kicked his shin hard - using his own uninjured leg. In another swift move, he released the other's wrist; his legs scrabbled beneath him until he lurched unsteadily to his feet, but already another guard was latching onto his arms.

Ducking his head, Marx backed up rapidly and twisted in place so the guard had his arms awkwardly - and probably quite painfully - bent around Marx's side in order to maintain his hold on the handcuffs. Marx spit blood onto his face. In the few seconds that brought him, he rocked back and kicked him in the stomach before staggering away, limping.

His wild purple eyes swerved all around the room. Only more guards had joined the fight. Now a circle of them surrounded him - some drawing weapons with a sliding metal sound that sickened Kirby to his core.

Despite the violence, despite the fact the guards were only trying to protect their own, Kirby found himself longing for Marx to win - only because he wanted to flee this planet. He just wanted to leave at this point. He did not want Marx to be persecuted, not like this.

Not a being particularly driven to retribution, he found no satisfaction in knowing this could be a way for Marx to pay for all his crimes. The thought did not even cross his mind. Instead, he wished for an innocuous retreat from the planet. Such a retreat, however, no longer looked so promising.

Now the guards with sword were advancing upon Marx - Marx, who'd already suffered injuries, who was breathing fast and transferring his gaze jerkily from one threat to the next with feverish unease. The earl didn't stop his retinue. Kirby realized he wasn't going to stop them - as he'd said, if it came down to Marx's life or his soldiers, there was no choice. They were rather equal on that point, if on opposite sides of the spectrum, and Kirby would much prefer if no one else got hurt. Only he would act - and so he did.

Kirby bolted before the earl could stop him. He darted into the circle beside Marx, raising his hands. "Stop! Stop, please! Do not attack!" The guards halted, but with confusion and uncertainty in their eyes. They only knew Kirby as the one Earl Kavika insisted was innocent, not as one having a more or less functional relationship with the accused. The earl, when he chanced to meet his eyes, looked very displeased. "He'll cooperate," Kirby continued blindly. "Just... don't attack. I'll tell you everything." Kirby wondered if he was quite possibly insane. He had no idea what he was doing. Besides discovering wonderful ways to commit suicide. Tell the earl the whole truth? If his entourage didn't kill him, Marx would when he was released.

The glare burning into him from Marx only increased his fear and doubt a tenfold. And made him feel hopelessly alone. If Marx wouldn't stand by him, who would? He half-turned to the jester uneasily. Searched for some assurance, some confidence that he was nonetheless sure he would not receive.

But then - there it was - a shrouded half-smile, mischievous and sadistically pleased through and through. Rapidly, a glare concealed it. Kirby looked away. His doubt wasn't assuaged, he was still equally bewildered - but Marx had some semblance of faith in him.

Earl Kavika's sharp black eyes hunted for treachery between the two. While he'd missed the meaning, he had to have witnessed the exchanged look. His orders were slow in coming and wrought with distrust, "Kirby. Tell him to kneel and remain still so my soldiers may grab him again."

"What are you going to do to him?"

"Just hold him in the dungeons until his sentence is decided. No harm will come to him there."

"Marx..." Kirby winced. "Can you please kneel?"

"If you ask so politely," was Marx's acidic reply. He dropped to his knees. Without wasting a moment, two soldiers rushed to secure his arms.

Marx tilted his head back, surveying the earl lazily. "Are you gonna persecute my savior too?"

"That will depend on what we find," he said shortly.

Marx laughed without any real humor. "You should. It'd be so ironic, to see him be punished for only trying to do good. He couldn't hurt a fly!" The guards pulled him roughly to his feet, eliciting another growl. Hands tightened around sword hilts.

"I'll decide that for myself."

They dragged Marx down the hall, leaving only Earl Kavika, three guards, and a very uneasy Kirby.

The earl's critical focus shifted to him. "So, you are on friendly terms with him?"

"Something like that..."

"I suggest you tell me the entire truth, now."

"There isn't much more to it... Really, we just ran out of supplies, food, fuel... We had to stop soon or die in space. So Nashira came up on the map, and we just headed toward it. We don't have a 'registered' ship because we'd never been to this planet before, and Marx thought just one small lie would clear us to get supplies and leave. I swear, we don't mean any harm. I just said my name was Meta Knight because... I'd heard it before, and I was scared of getting in trouble."

"I would have believed you," the earl said, "but for one thing. Your 'friend' killed one of my soldiers. Murdered him, simply for trying to bring him in for questioning."

Kill. Murder. Both words he despised. He shuddered and averted his eyes.

"That doesn't sound very innocent to me, Kirby."

It doesn't mean the same thing to him. 'You probably just scared him' was probably the least reasonable excuse, but Kirby thought it closest to the truth. In truth, Marx had encountered a problem and eliminated it. Whether he didn't consider that the soldier had a family, friends, and a life as real as anyone's - or if he simply did not care, Kirby did not know. Either way, the fact remained: Marx was innocent of the crimes accused of him on Nashira, and the murder did not mean the same thing to him as it did the earl or Kirby. But how can one explain that sort of mentality? How, even, could one explain it without making both he and Marx sound completely insane?

After all, explaining it would imply he was comfortable with Marx's mentality, which was far from the truth. Very far from the truth. It would also incriminate Marx further, and the shorter time they spent confined to this planet, the better.

"Well?" Earl Kavika broke into his thoughts.

"He was probably just... defending himself," Kirby argued lamely. Technically, that was probably true too.

The earl was not amused. "Kirby, if you are not honest with us, I will be forced to think you too are an enemy, despite what I believe now. What was he so afraid of us finding, if he was willing to kill over it?"

"It's... I don't think... it's not so much what you'd find..."

"..."

Oh god this was going to sound weird. "Y-y'know how sometimes, you'll be walking along, and suddenly there's an ant in your path, and you just step on it without thinking?"

Slow nod.

"Well... Sometimes I think... I think that's the way Marx feels about other people."

It was silent for a very long moment. Earl Kavika's black eyes never left his face. Kirby couldn't quite meet them. His fingers, twisting together anxiously, commanded his full attention.

The uncomfortable silence prompted him to speak, to break it. "But, if you just leave him alone, he's all right. I don't think he likes people much..."

"I see."

Kirby looked up. "See what?"

The earl met his eyes with a grim, saddened look. "I'm sorry, Kirby. But murder is unforgivable. Captain Marx will receive capital punishment."


	5. Chapter 5

"I still believe you can answer questions your companion is refusing to answer."

"That's why you're keeping me here, isn't it?" Kirby answered. A day had passed since Marx's arrest, and Kirby had been forbidden from either visiting him or returning to the Halberd. In fact, Earl Kavika seemed to have the full intention of imprisoning Kirby himself on Nashira: the Earl had demanded the Halberd's passcode so they could retrieve some of Kirby's clothes. When Kirby refused, they gave him a few sets of heavy cloaks, all in hideous greens or browns. They'd then offered him a room within the castle and since yesterday he could never be found in need of anything. He had but to ask and the earl would bring anything himself. There didn't seem to be any servants in the castle.

"Naturally," the Earl nodded. "You've been absolved of any guilt for the crime."

Kirby thought, at first, the earl's generous deeds were meant to be some sort of compensation for sentencing Marx to death, but he'd quickly dismissed this idea. Earl Kavika was an honest man, and he well knew any poor attempt at compensation would be worthless.

Currently, they were walking through the garden beyond the castle: a desiccate piteous thing consisting of gnarled roots and bristly bushes. Nashira could not boast of grandiose vegetation.

Kirby walked freely beside the Earl, and wore no restraints nor bindings despite his apparent status as prisoner. Earl Kavika had not yet given him permission to leave yet – nor did he wish to, not with Marx captive.

"I swear, we're both being completely honest," Kirby said, "we just wanted supplies; we're not trying to harm Nashira in any way."

Earl Kavika halted, startled. "No, I know you are truthful. Galactic threats against Nashira generally do not make themselves known by two teenage boys. And after having met the two of you, I'm even more sure."

"Oh. Then... why are you still holding Marx?"

"Murder, Kirby," Earl Kavika said, his eyebrows raised in surprise, "you didn't know this?"

"No, I thought..." Kirby stepped closer, forcing himself to meet the Earl's black eyes. "None of this was supposed to happen. We were just supposed to come in, get food and fuel, and leave. Everything with us as a threat against Nashira was a misunderstanding, and without that misunderstanding we'd already be gone. Please, Earl... If you release Marx and let us go, we'll never come back here. You don't have to worry about seeing our faces ever again, honest."

"The penalty for murder in Nashira is death. We cannot tolerate-"

"Just this once!" Kirby pleaded, "We'll be gone, like we were never here at all."

"And of the sentinel? Azram Sk'et - what of his wife and friends, what of his life?"

Oh stars, he didn't need this too, compounding onto the guilt resting on his shoulders.

The thought of his death's affect - not just the taking of a human life, but also the waves of agony that reverberated from its secession. That was too much for him to think about.

"Please," he moaned. "I know. I know that - just... this one time, let him go. Don't kill him. Don't kill Marx."

The Earl surveyed him with a heavy gaze. "Why are you traveling with him?"

Kirby gritted his teeth. Was that the Earl's purpose for keeping him? The Earl pitied him? "Tell me you won't kill him," Kirby said lowly.

For a long moment neither of them moved. The Earl's look was heartbreakingly empathetic, but also resolute. His hand lifted to rest on Kirby's shoulder, and his gaze never wavered. "Kirby, I truly am sorry... and you have my sincerest sympathies... but I do not run this city by breaking my own laws, and these laws keep us moving. My order stands as it did before."

A strangled noise escaped Kirby's throat; on unintended impulse, he shrugged off Kavika's hand and backed away.

"I thought you would make that request," Earl Kavika confessed sadly, "when first I spoke to you today. Would you like to be alone?"

"Not yet," Kirby said fiercely. "How long? How long before?"

"The day after tomorrow. The accused generally don't want to take the stress of knowing any longer."

Kirby nodded. "And... how?"

"Hanging." Pause. "I'll leave you, then, if that is it."

Kirby nodded mutely, and the Earl turned, his long strides soon carried him away to the castle with his purple robe sweeping behind him.

Kirby knew he was alone, aside from the guards who doubtlessly watched him, but that could not be helped.

He sank to the ground and covered his face with his hands. God, how everything shot out of control in such a short time... if only they hadn't thought Marx a threat to Nashira. If only Marx never left the Halberd a second time and if only they'd escaped the city earlier in the evening. But 'if onlys' were futile; they did nothing to help the present - this was one thing Kirby knew well. What helped the present was moving forward, against anything and everything, just to keep moving - like on the Halberd, going toward the future, willing facing what came next. Or running away. He tried not to overthink this.

But what now? It seemed like such a strange impossibility - Marx's death. By his very nature the jester gave the impression of immortality. He could trick himself out of death itself. Kirby couldn't fathom him actually dying.

Then again... he'd thought the very same thing with Fumu. He clenched his hair tightly. Nono don't go there.

 _What if Marx deserves it?_ He froze. A traitorous, savage idea; terrifying in its implication, and it felt so unlike him that he immediately wished he had not thought it, for a kaleidoscope of reasons he did not want to consider.

 _But what if?_ No one deserves death! he protested fiercely against his own thoughts. But... it would stop him. Prevent him from doing it again. Kirby had no illusions: he knew full well that Marx was a dangerous person. He entirely lacked guilt - of course he was dangerous.

And yet despite this, Kirby wanted above all else to somehow save him.

Perhaps, by some of his past actions, Marx did deserve to be killed. Perhaps this was retribution. But Marx could be more than what his actions said sometimes. Kirby caught that, in thoughtful reveries, in lapses of cruelty, in affectionate gestures. He didn't want that to end. The balance between them was a tentative thing, ever fragile and apt to violently spin out of its place, but it was still there, and getting stronger - he knew it was getting stronger, slowly but surely. That he was even coming to understand Marx - to guess at his emotions, detect his lies, and grasp ever-so-weakly why he did as he did...

No matter how nebulous his understand was now, it would improve and he longed for that, as he did for the moments when Marx was not guarded from him by lies; when, instead, he seemed to mutually trust Kirby and - ohsorarely - acted so human. Those moments when Kirby talked to him and would abruptly realize how very normal Marx seemed. He'd realize that he had forgotten his fear, but that it didn't matter because Marx was not concerned with it at that moment.

He could not let that cease. Nor could he let cease his determination to find his past; a determination which somehow had irrevocably linked itself with Marx. Maybe out of need - he could not pilot the Halberd himself - or maybe something else, he did not know. Either way, Marx's death would revoke any hope of understanding himself. It would leave him utterly alone in a new universe he knew nothing of.

But what could he do to stop it? He was utterly powerless. He thought again of Marx's ephemeral half-smile, what once glimpsed was gone - the one back in the throne room when Kirby told the Earl he would confess everything. Marx had fought so fiercely, desperately before that. Then he'd placed his life entirely in Kirby's hands.

Kirby had to do something.

 

Kavika's lax security served as his undoing. While Kirby crept through the halls, he repeatedly expected someone to leap behind the crawlspaces in the walls and yell at him for his guilty actions. Part of him even wanted that to happen because it would spare him the ordeal of continuing. But if that happened… Marx would die. Miraculously, terrifyingly, not a single soul disturbed Kirby's slinking tread through the sprawling mud-brick castle.

He was thoroughly lost, in all honesty, but he was following the same path they had lead Marx down two days ago, and so he hoped he would reach his destination.

Sure enough, the passage lead him around scrolls of winding corners until at last he halted before a gloomy dim-lit room. An aisle of iron cages sprawled down a corridor right across the room, descending deep into darkness. Kirby could not glimpse Marx in any of the nearby cages, and so approached the corridor.

Out of the flickering shadows stepped a guard. "What's your business here?" he grunted.

Kirby jumped back.. "O-oh." Of course. They wouldn't just have the cells open for perusal, would they?

"Business?" the guard prodded. He looked infinitely bored but Kirby doubted that would help him much. And… the keys were locked on his belt. Kirby eyed them desperately. What now?

"I was… um… wondering if – if I could see M-Marx. The captain."

"No can do," The jailor put his hands on his hips. His fingers curled right over the keys. "The boss told me no visitors."

"I'm the one Marx came in with. Kirby. Please, I just…"

"No visitors, especially not Kirby."

"Oh, well…." Kirby considered snatching the keys and making a run for it. He'd be caught long before he could find Marx's cell. "Kavika told me I could visit Marx – just for a few minutes. Um, supervised." He choked on the last statement, "to say goodbye." The finality of Marx's impending death was becoming far too real.

"Enough, kid," the jailor grunted. "Go back to your room."

"But…"

"Enough." He glared. "No visitors. Those are my orders, and you won't get me to go against 'em."

"Okay. Right." Swallowing hard, Kirby turned away. His cheeks were aflame with embarrassment and failure. The very moment he stepped into his room, he slammed the door and slumped against the wall.

He'd really fudged that up. No – the very idea was so stupid in the first place. How had he ever expected that to work? He buried his face in his hands. Another plan… he needed another plan; one that he could design and execute within two days.

Kirby crashed his head against the wall. This was impossible.


	6. Chapter 6

"Kirby."

The voice went ignored.

"Kirby? Kirby, I know you are awake."

"I know. I know it's today." Kirby mumbled. But he didn't want to face its reality. For the past two days, Kirby had tried one break-out after another, none which were met with success. Pretending to be a guard, sneaking in the shadows, searching for alternate routes into the prison. Just this morning, he'd tried digging through the wall with a spoon he'd nicked from the kitchens. To be fair, that idea had been stupid from the start.

They'd finally chained him to the bedroom they had so graciously offered him. They promised to release him after Marx's…. after Marx's…

Just, afterwards.

So long as he promised not to return.

In a pitiful show of defiance, Kirby had ignored the green-blanketed bed and instead curled up in the corner.

"They will begin soon," Earl Kavika said from the doorway.

His kindness only made it worse.

"You have a choice," the earl continued. "You may stay here if you like, and we will negotiate your release after the execution. Elsewise, you may come with me to see Marx off."

See him off. What a disgusting way to put it. What a disgusting choice. If he stayed here, could he really pretend that it wasn't happening? Wouldn't his imagination fill in the gaps in the most gruesome of ways? But if he went… how could he watch that?

"I'll stay," muttered Kirby.

"What was that?"

"I'll stay here. I don't want to see it."

"Kirby, I'm not partial to showing sympathy towards your friend. But he may want your support…"

Kirby snorted. He couldn't get his body to stop shaking and he suspected he should be worried about that. Couldn't quite get himself to care, though. "Marx doesn't need me."

"At some point, everyone needs somebody."

"He doesn't."

"Very well." Earl Kavika turned to leave. "Then we shall speak after."

After. After he was killed. The end, blank slate. His last memory of the jester would be Marx getting dragged down to the dungeons, locked in chains. Kirby saw someone else in his mind's eye – Fumu, nailed to the wall and engulfed in flames. The last, final memory of her. He shuddered violently. _It's been a year. Does this ever get easier?_

"Wait," Kirby choked out.

Kavika stilled.

_IhatethisIhatethisIhatemyself._

"I'll go."

Earl Kavika led Kirby behind the low castle, where they had walked three days hence. They passed the garden of gnarled roots and spiny flowers, and followed a winding stone path which soon faded to sand. They ended by an ugly stout tree, from which the noose hung soullessly. Someone had placed a thick wooden board beneath the branch, and a strange lever was located at the edge of this board. Kirby didn't understand all this, but it made him shudder nonetheless.

Dreamland didn't have customs like this.

Then again… Dreamland had never known an evil that necessitated such customs.

A single grey-clad woman leaned against the lever. _The executioner?_ Kirby mused dazedly. She stared at Kirby and he shied away.

Everything was much too quiet. Much too hot and much too quiet. Kirby leaned closer to Kavika and whispered, "will I be able to speak to him before….?"

"Briefly," the Earl responded.

Suddenly a grated door to the castle clanged open, and Kirby jumped. Out stumbled Marx, accompanied by two aggressive-looking guards. Kirby cringed at the sight. Marx sported a heavy limp, as though the gouge in his calf had worsened. He walked with his head bowed, veiling his expression from Kirby's perception. Kirby found most horrifying his complete and utter lack of struggling. Marx was spitfire and fury; he didn't just give up. So why wasn't he fighting against the guards, and using the last of his ragged voice to swear against all of them?

"Khir, Chazek!" Kavika gestured meaningfully to the guards.

They inclined their heads and obediently dragged the jester to meet Kirby face-to-face. Although they were a good four feet apart, it was too close for comfort – too close to be seeing Marx like this.

Abruptly, Kirby's throat was too dry. If he'd thought of any words to say before, they dissolved on his tongue and became nothing. Time whizzed by and he knew he ought to say something but oh stars all he could do was stare.

"Kirby," prompted Kavika. "Farewells?"

He expected a beautifully simple hatred towards Marx, for making him suffer so long, for killing Fumu, for dragging him out to space and leaving him alone. But instead, all his hot hate cooled into something painful and raw. Any loathing he had left was directed at himself, because despite everything Marx had done, it hurt to witness this. It hurt to see him so broken when over and over again in the past he'd erected a mask of immortality.

_Marx is not supposed to be able to die._

He spited himself and he spited Marx, but it was almost as if he was too anxious and too shocked to have any heart behind the hatred. He just felt… drained. So horrified that he could no longer comprehend anything.

_Just like with Fumu…_

Why did he keep thinking of her? Why now?

Kavika sighed imperceptibly. With a gesture of the earl's hand, the soldiers hauled Marx back.

An emptiness pooled in Kirby's stomach. He hadn't even been able to bring himself to say goodbye. It couldn't end like this!

Together, the two guards and Marx drifted to the wooden platform beneath the desert tree.

As the executioner read out Marx's guilt, Kirby thought blindly; _this isn't real - this can't be real._ Out of tension, he nearly laughed. Fabric rustled at his side: he felt Earl Kavika gazing down at him in concern.

 _Don't worry about me,_ Kirby thought, staring at Marx's down-turned face. _I'm okay. Definitely okay._

The executioner finished her small speech. The guards backed Marx to the center of the platform. Everything slowed down. Kirby heard his own blood pulsing sluggishly through his ears.

Warm dry rolls of wind sighed over the earth and stroked up beads of sand that stung Kirby's eyes. One guard settled the noose around Marx's neck while the other held him still.

That's when Kirby saw it.

Marx's lips curled back to reveal a mischievous sliver of his fangs. A thrill shot straight up Kirby's spine, his heart surged; _Marx hasn't given up._ Which meant something terriblewonderful was about to happen, real quick.

Kirby never thought. There was not a single moment where he planned, or wondered ahead, or considered the consequence. He never even saw what Marx did, because at that moment he whirled around and his hands scrabbled for the sword at Kavika's hip – because damnit, if Marx was still fighting, then Kirby was sure as hell gonna fight too.

Before the Earl even knew what he was doing, Kirby staggered away with the sword clutched in his fists: he couldn't let the Earl get in the way if Marx was going to escape.

Instantly Kavika had his hands up, and his dark eyes were so calm, oh so calm – _how could he look so calm?_

Kirby didn't want to hurt him; there was no wish at all for him to get hurt. He only hoped that the Earl didn't know that and would keep his attention on Kirby rather than trying to stop Marx.

Behind him, he heard unfamiliar screams; he could not say why, but the sound scared him.

"Stay back!" he yelled at Kavika, waving the sword clumsily. If he just kept Kavika away from the platform, maybe he'd buy Marx enough time to get through the guards. _Get through? Is that what you're calling it now?_

"Drop the sword," Kavika demanded, eyes nailed on Kirby, "you don't want to do this, Kirby."

Despite the imminent threat, Kavika's eyes darted to the platform.

"Hey!" Kirby screamed. He prayed that all the scuffling and scratching sounds meant Marx was winning. "I'll hurt you!"

Kavika raised his hands higher. "You have my attention, Kirby. My full attention. I hear all the words you speak. Now listen to mine. You have a choice."

No no no this was complicating things, this was making Kirby think, and thinking wasn't good for the moment, he needed things to be simple, clear-cut, he was tired of confusion and ambiguity.

"Kirby, listen to me! You have a choice. You do not have to protect him. You do not have to defend what he does, understand?"

Kirby shook so hard that the hilt rattled in his hands. "I don't want to hurt you," he whimpered, "so you better stay back."

Earl Kavika didn't listen. His purple robes flowing at his feet, he stepped closer. "You do not have to hurt me."

"I said stay back!" For all his bravado, though, Kirby didn't move an inch.

"Listen," Earl Kavika murmured, his voice infinitely soft and infinitely understanding, "You can choose differently."

"I…" Kirby lowered the sword. "H-how?"

At that moment, a multi-colored blur lunged past Kirby's side, accompanied by a vicious, vengeful snarl.

"Don't hurt him!" Kirby squeaked, but his fear was unfounded.

Just as Marx leapt at Kavika, the earl twisted on his heels and slammed his elbow directly into Marx's chest. Marx let out a harsh gag and struck the dirt. Immediately, he curled into himself, wheezing and clutching his chest.

"Back off!" Kirby growled. He lunged and stood over Marx with his feet planted, swiping the long blade inches from Kavika's face.

"Just hand over the sword," the Earl continued, his palms opened placatingly.

Kirby tightened his grip. No, he couldn't… After all this, how could he just hand over the sword? How could he hand over Marx's life? _Only to spare the lives of others._ The Earl's dark hand beckoned expectantly.

Kirby trembled. Beneath him Marx was quivering against his ankles and gasping weakly. So helpless. But only for now.

It didn't matter. It didn't matter if he would get up again, just as strong as Kirby remembered. Kirby had made a choice, and he was going to stick with it… no matter how awful it made him feel at times.

A sharp sound beneath Kirby – something between a cough and a scream – and suddenly the pressure was gone from the inside of Kirby's calves. Footsteps pounded against hot sand as Marx high-tailed it away from them.

Kirby dropped the sword and shot after Marx. Oh stars he felt sick, he felt that any moment he would collapse and vomit up all this tension but he had no such privilege.

With a roar, Kavika was after them, and already the distance between he and Marx was widening and damn Marx could run – hadn't he been struggling just to walk a moment ago?

"You couldn't fucking break me out of jail?" Marx screamed back into the wind.

"Where are we going?" Kirby howled back.

"Halberd!"

"What?" That was on the complete other side of the city; there was no way they were going to get there before Earl Kavika caught up!

"Better fly!" Marx cackled. "No where else is safe, Kirby!"

"Well, I don't th-" All color vanished from Kirby's cheeks. Dark shapes were forming on the horizon towards which they were running. More guards were circling around in front of them. "Marx!"

But the jester had noticed himself. He skidded to a stop and Kirby nearly slammed into his back.

Marx whirled around and wrapped his arms around his companion. With great alarm, Kirby realized just how much Marx's bones jutted from his skin – his hipbones sharp and his shoulder blades forming painful angles. His breathing could've matched the wingbeats of a hummingbird. Insanity had sutured up the panic and adrenaline pulsing through Marx. His spidery hands shivered with tremors as he clutched Kirby's shirt, and his usually composed or darkly jovial eyes now darted about with dilated pupils. He was wired, like some addict in the throes of fierce withdrawal.

Rings of guards clad all in grey and black rippled towards them. All were armed to the teeth. Had they called all the guards in the city?

"Surrender," Earl Kavika's voice rumbled behind them. "This does not have to become any worse, Kirby."

"It always has to get worse!" Marx howled. Kirby flinched, but there was no escape – the jester pressed himself closer, and on all sides they were now surrounded.

"Give up," Kirby whimpered into his ear. "We can't fight them. Please, please just surrender."

"Kirby, Kay…" Marx whispered. Still eyeing the approaching mob, he seized Kirby's hair and tugged him close enough to taste his stale breath. "I think we're dead."

"Yeah, not yet!" Kirby yelped. "Please, give up. We'll find another way." Lies, all of it. There couldn't be another way.

"Now might be.. heh… Now might be… haha well…"

"Now might be what?" He could feel the guards approaching, sense the lethal silver of their swords like a beam of light branding his flesh. Any time now, someone would get close enough and deliver the final strike.

Is this what death is like?

"A very good time to tell you there's something I can do…" Marx breathed. His hands crept down and grasped the back of Kirby's shirt.

Kirby's eyes widened as he leapt to terrible conclusions. "Don't kill anyone."

"Not that. Holy Nova, I hope this works. Hold on tight."

Marx smiled one final time, and then a thousand paper-thin wires jabbed underneath Kirby's skin – he never saw them, but he felt them, and they shredded him apart into millions of pieces - all at once, he had no body, no ability to move, nor to scream or see. Nothing hurt but neither did anything feel like anything. He knew he existed, but beyond that, it was a void of absolute nothing. The world itself was all scrambled up and out of order, whirling in a maelstrom of chaos.

Then abruptly his lungs expanded and he reeled back and cried out and his eyes snapped open and –

The Halberd.

_Holy sh-_

No no no there was no way.

The Halberd, they were on the – completely impossible – he wheeled around, and it had to be true; the dials and levers, the windshield – they were in the Halberd's control room! An unpleasant retching hit his ears; Kirby turned just in time to see Marx lose the contents of his stomach to the floor.

"Meta Knight won't be happy about that," Kirby said dazedly, because suddenly the world had ceased making sense altogether and after all that adrenaline and _I'm not dead!_ he couldn't even handle anything anymore.

"Urghh…" Marx collapsed against the wall and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

"Th-the soldiers…." Kirby spun around again. "Won't they…?"

"They can't get in," Marx said haggardly. "Halberd's too well sealed. I say we just… stay here. For a bit."

"Right. Right, yeah." Kirby faced Marx. "You can teleport?"

"Sort've. A little. I…" Marx thrust his head down and dry-heaved.

It was a testament to the utter screwed up-ness of the situation that Kirby didn't feel an ounce of pity for Marx at that moment. Oh no – he was furious. "You could've teleported out of your cell," he said slowly. "All of that time I spent panicking, and you could've teleported out of your cell…" His fists clenched and his teeth ground together in rage. "I tried so hard to get you out! I spent every waking second freaking out about the fact you were gonna die – I've gotten like, all of four hours of sleep in the past three days! Do you even realize the kind of nightmares I've had? I risked getting thrown in jail just for you! And all along you could have just up and left the cell yourself!"

"It's not…"

"Two years and you never even bother to mention this? Damnit Marx how long have you been able to do that? What else can you do? Stars, I don't even… You're so chock-full of secrets, and I never know what's going on in your head – It's like I'm not even-"

"Kirby," Marx ground out, "please…"

"-worthy for you! Oh, don't mind me! Don't mind poor Kirby, he's just there to entertain you. Let him suffer just because it's so. Freakin. Amusing!" The last word turned into a scream and with that final note, all the fight dropped right out of his body. Kirby staggered back against the control board; his chest heaved and his hands trembled. He'd never lashed out at someone like that. He'd never done anything like that, ever, period. That…. Was pure hate. He didn't have pure hate, he wasn't – that wasn't like him.

"Nnhh. That's…" Marx waggled a finger before his unfocused eyes. "Nightmares?"

With that said, he crumpled to the floor.

 

"I'm glad to see you're expanding your food horizons," Magolor said as he cheerfully jabbed a fork towards Meta Knight's plate.

Meta Knight wasn't entirely sure what he was eating, to be honest, but he'd thought of steak at the time and it wasn't currently poisoning him, so he figured it was all right. "Contrary to popular belief, I cannot survive on sugar alone."

"You were trying to," chuckled Magolor. "I think you went months without eating anything except fuzzle pops."

"I ate in town."

"Sometimes," Magolor said, rolling his eyes. "Is this some left-over habit from the war?"

"My choice to eat little? Yes."

"Ah." Magolor got quiet, but no awkwardness could silence him for long. "What made you decide to try Halcandran food?"

"Cultural diversity."

Magolor sniggered. "Riiight. You know, you might actually like Halcandra. Tell you what – if we get through both of our messes all right, I'll give you a free ride there."

"Your description of the landscape is hardly flattering, Magolor. I mean no insult, but are the conditions even survivable?"

"Bah, you've been in a war. You've seen worse conditions, I'm sure – if your tendency to starve yourself means anything. Anyway, I promise – Halcandra really can be beautiful. It's only the people that can get to you."

"The people?" Magolor had never mentioned anything negative about his planet before, but if Meta Knight read correctly, there was something dark in the way he had referenced its civilians.

Magolor waved a hand dismissively. "It's a long story."

"You have an uncanny number of secrets," Meta Knight murmured.

"Eh?" Magolor cocked his head to the side.

"I was merely thinking aloud."

"Trust me, it's not worth knowing. We'd avoid the cities as much as we could if we went back to Halcandra."

"It is not only that."

"This is because I haven't told you where I'm going, right?" Magolor said. "Or about the amulet?"

"Among other things, that is correct."

Magolor grinned. "But Meta Knight, you're the one who's got all the secrets. Mine aren't all that bad. I get the 'dark and creepy' aura from you, like what you keep is all serious and important."

"I've told you my past; of the war and my role in it."

"Yeah, yeah." Magolor waved his fork about. "Sure, you've told me everything you've felt like telling me, but there are some nice holes in your story. You fought before Zero even got involved, and that was forever ago – how are you even that old?"

"I have my ways."

"Thought that Dreamland's life expectancy was like 120 years or something. You guys don't live that long."

"You're assuming I was born on Dreamland."

"Ah…" Magolor winked. "See, now you're a little more open. So how old are you really?"

Meta Knight let his fork rest beside the plate and studied his hands for a long moment. "I have lost track."

"Damn." Magolor sat back, yellow eyes wide.

"And you?" responded Meta Knight quietly. He preferred not to dwell on these things. They made something in him ache, something far too old and far too weary.

"Seventy-six," Magolor said happily. "But that translates to a little under twenty in Dreamland years."

"Another trait of Halcandrans?"

"Of wizards."

Meta Knight frowned beneath his mask. "You said you had very little magical ability."

"Ah, yes, well…" Magolor's dark cheeks flushed. "I was… sort of an embarrassment for my family. They're wizards, and I... Well, we didn't get along well. It's not something I really like to talk about."

"You and I are more alike than I had thought," Meta Knight laughed lightly.

"So that's what it sounds like when you laugh…" Magolor marveled.

Instantly, the deep rolling sound shut off. "You have never heard me laugh?"

"Nah. You're like a wall sometimes, MK. Intimidating as all get out, and so hard to talk to."

"Hm."

For a few moments, only the clacking of silverware filled the room. Meta Knight internally scoffed. Magolor was such a noisy eater. Meta Knight took it as a reflection of his personality: for a man with so many secrets, Magolor was a startlingly outgoing and bouncy sort of person.

Sometimes Meta Knight could hardly stand to linger around the Halcandran: he suspected that Magolor harbored a deep loneliness, and that he attempted to sate this loneliness by using Meta Knight's company.

"I will require your ship's computer again tonight," Meta Knight spoke.

"You'll want me out of the ship then, won't you?" Magolor sighed.

"As usual."

"All right," Magolor relented. Another silence; these came often around Meta Knight, Magolor had learned. "Hey… MK?"

"Hm?"

"After you do get to wherever you're going… after you get your ship back, what do you plan on doing?"

Fantastic question, actually. It depended entirely on the… condition he got both his ship and Kirby back. "I am not sure," Meta Knight replied, for this was the complete, blunt truth.

"Heavy stuff, huh?"

"Pitting good against evil. Saving the universe sort of business," Meta Knight replied smoothly.

Magolor grinned wide and clapped his hands together. "Wow! I get a laugh and a joke in the same night! This is… serious improvement. It's about time you relaxed, buddy."

Meta Knight shrugged. "It has been known to happen. Why do you ask?"

"Huh?"

"Why do you ask what I will do?"

"Oh." Sorrow veiled Magolor's normally cheery yellow eyes. "It's just this little dealeo. A small thing."

"You asked for a reason; don't dance around it."

"Well, you know we both have our own business to deal with. Maybe yours will have you running in circles all over the place, and that's fine. But I don't really…" pause. "I don't have a lot of friends, MK. I don't want you to disappear on me, too."

Meta Knight tilted his head to the side. "An outgoing man like you… it seems odd you aren't surrounded by company." The knight recalled how bare the Lor Starcutter had seemed all those months ago. No decorations, no personal details. Just empty.

"I-it does seem odd, doesn't it?" conceded the Halcandran.

"Being alone is not so terrible."

"Man, you radiate a need to be alone," Magolor griped, "It's different for you. I bet you've been alone a lot."

"You would be correct," Meta Knight said quietly.

"Sorry, I…" Magolor sighed. "I'm sorry."

Meta Knight smiled beneath his mask. "'No hard feelings,' as you put it. After I retrieve my ship, the connection between the two vessels will still survive. Any time you wish, I may be contacted."

Magolor nodded. "Thanks. I might end up pretty busy, but hey, you never know how the dice will roll."

"Indeed not…"

Magolor paused, and when he next spoke, his voice was low and uncertain, "Can I tell you something, Meta Knight?"

"You have my attention."

Magolor's gaze darted away. "Um. What I'm doing…. Where I'm going, I mean – it might have to do with saving the universe."

"Heavy stuff," echoed Meta Knight, only because he did not know what else to say. He couldn't be certain what Magolor was implying or where he was trying to lead the conversation.

Magolor chuckled weakly. "Yeah, heavy stuff." He tugged at his scarf.

"I cannot understand from your vague hints."

"I'm looking for a friend of mine. We… had similar goals. We wanted to do some good in the world, like about the war. I didn't expect to tell anyone or anything – it was kinda just between us. But things got a little screwed up, and…" Magolor ducked his head down; his hood shadowed his expression in an unnerving way.

"And…?" prompted the knight.

"If we end up needing help," Magolor said slowly, "will I be able to reach you?"

"What sort of help?" Meta Knight answered carefully.

Magolor cleared his throat and stood up abruptly from the table. He stacked up the dishes with trembling hands. "Thank you, MK." He smiled fleetingly, visible only by the creases near his eyes. "Really, thank you for listening. It's nothing too serious, though. We'll be fine, I'm sure. No kind of help. I'll get back to you on it."

Meta Knight sat back, aware he had tread an unspoken line. Magolor's comfort with this subject lay on a delicate knife point, and evidently he intended to confess nothing more for the night. Still, the pieces of what he had admitted circled around the knight's head. Despite his own concerns, he couldn't help analyzing Magolor's words to understand what it all meant.

"So," Magolor said as he wandered to the sink. "You're looking for someone too."

Meta Knight smirked. Oh, he wasn't going to be as revealing. His secrets were his own. "That is correct."

"But you keep contacting your own ship."

"Yes."

"So…" Magolor threw a glance over his shoulder. He appeared infinitely more relaxed now that he wasn't talking of his own problems. "This person has your ship?"

"So it would seem."

"You're elusive, you know that?"

"Of course."

"Opening up to people isn't bad, MK. It'd help you be a little more normal, ya know."

"Is that why you have so few friends?" Meta Knight retorted emotionlessly.

Magolor froze.

Okay, so that remark had been frigid and cruel. But Magolor confessing a sliver of his purpose gave him no right to expect the same of Meta Knight.

"I'd hate to stick my nose into business that isn't mine," Magolor said, stiff as iron, "but don't ya think your friend might not wanna talk?"

Subtle tension tightened across Meta Knight's shoulders, as though Magolor's words made them pull taut.

"Sometimes people just don't want to be found, Meta Knight."

A long silence snaked between the two semi-companions.

Then, Magolor deflated where he stood. He whirled around. "Look, MK, I didn't mean-"

"You should not claim to understand the nature of my search," interrupted Meta Knight, frigid as a glacier. He rose from the table and shoved away a plate of food that he had barely touched. "I wish for privacy."

He stalked to the Lor's control deck and there waited until he heard Magolor storm out of the ship. The initial sting of the Halcandran's words had now faded; Meta Knight clutched his cape tightly around his body and shoved aside the lingering regret from having lashed out. Normally he wasn't so volatile, but few things could move him as did a single mention of Kirby.

"The Battleship Halberd," rang out the knight's voice into the still air. By now the Lor had learned his intentions well enough that it automatically connected by those three words alone. The connotations of the Lor's learning curve were disturbing, but Meta Knight did not worry himself over it.

In fact, as soon as the image of the Halberd's control deck materialized before his eyes, he found that he could not possibly worry about anything else at that moment.

Kirby's profile was silhouetted against the cozy darkness within the control deck, so stark and unexpected that words initially failed him. Luckily, his ex-student had his back turned, attention captured by something on the floor that Meta Knight could not perceive. After so long, Meta Knight almost couldn't believe his eyes – before he'd even contacted the ship, he'd been steeling himself for defeat yet again; always in the past the Halberd's control deck had been painfully empty. But no, there stood Kirby, in flesh and blood.

Although… not much of the former, Meta Knight noted. Kirby had always been of a slight stature, however, the past year had not treated him kindly. Hollows had formed where once flesh filled; his shirt hung oddly loose over his body and his once neatly-kept blonde hair now descended in messy waves almost to his shoulders. Even as Meta Knight watched, Kirby slumped against the control board and clutched his hair. The sound of his heavy panting filled the deck of the Lor Starcutter.

 _What's happened to him?_ "Kirby?"

The teen whirled around and immediately coils of tension wreathed around his body. "Meta Knight?"

Meta Knight could not know how Kirby might have changed over the past year - he could see only the side-effects, the physical manifestation of psychological wounds. For this reason, he had not expected a civil conversation. For this reason, he'd prepared four very carefully chosen words: the four words that he believed would best open Kirby to see reason.

Against his pounding pulse, against his yearning heart, against his so very human desire to strive for a kinder beginning or a gentler welcome, he forced out those words:

"Kirby - Fumu is not dead."


	7. Chapter 7

There were few windows on the Halberd, and none in the inner rooms. Why have windows when the outside worlds often offered only darkness?

Kirby, fraught with anxiety and nerves, brought Marx to the bedroom and laid him down on the bed. He did not wake.

Hours passed. Kirby couldn't stand still: he turned the fluorescent lights on, paced the floor, turned the lights off, paced some more. Thoughts swirled in his head like the debris in a tornado - disorganized, chaotic, confused. Worse, his memories from last year were doing their best to resurrect themselves after being so long buried. He tried over and over again to remember those terrible moments the best he could, to discern if there could possibly be any truth in Meta Knight's words. Exhaustion piled onto anxiety, and he swore he was going to wear a hole into the floor from his ceaseless pacing.

Hours passed. Marx had not moved; only his weak flutter of breath signaled life. Kirby began to worry. He poked Marx's shoulder, then shook him, and called his name. Nothing. He raided the kitchen for new food and brought in exotic fruits and meats, only to return them to the kitchen shortly after – it would just rot if Marx didn't wake soon. He pulled up a chair beside Marx's bed and trickled his fingers over the other's bony wrist, for once enjoying the luxury of mere touch without fear of Marx's refusals. He yawned, and he rested his chin in his palm. He watched. He waited.

Hours… passed.

Something murmured to Kirby from across a wide tunnel. The words didn't make sense. His neck hurt, as did his back.

"Nnfkay? Kay?"

Kirby blinked his eyes open and then shot up from the chair in which he'd been sitting. "Marx?"

"Yes, yes," muttered the bundle of blankets that was Marx. "It's glorious me." A harsh cough rattled the bed and he cringed further under the blanket until only his eyes peered out from beneath the rim of his hat.

"Are you… okay?" Kirby leaned closer.

"Ngg. Food?"

Well, he was feeling healthy enough to be hungry. Cautious, "I have some questions first. If I get you food, will you answer them?"

"Food first," Marx answered lowly.

"Just a single question, then," Kirby pressed. "One word answer, I promise."

"Don't, Kirby." That tone used to send him shivering with fear and repentance.

"You owe me answers."

"Don't," Marx hissed; the effort made him shudder.

"Fine," Kirby relented, only because Marx's vulnerability was somehow more frightening than his acidity. He returned quickly, holding up bread slices. "I figured you shouldn't have too much too quickly."

"Just like you to think something like that."

"You could be nicer, you know," Kirby frowned. "I am bringing you something to eat."

"After the things you told me?"

Ah. So he remembered that, then. In the surrealism of Meta Knight's call, Kirby had nearly forgotten his verbal attack on Marx. Nearly forgotten. If Meta Knight hadn't contacted him, Kirby knew he would have felt servilely apologetic. Now, though… Now Kirby wasn't sure how to feel. He wasn't sure of anything. Should he be more or less forgiving? "Then don't be nice," sighed Kirby, lacking energy or will to say anything else. Silently, he held the bread out to Marx.

The invalid ground his teeth together, darting his gaze away.

"I thought you were hungry," protested Kirby.

"I am."

"Is there something wrong with this?"

"It's fine."

Kirby frowned. Now Marx was just being stubborn. "Then eat it."

"I…" Marx cleared his throat. "It's difficult. To move. Lots of energy."

Come to think of it, he still hadn't shifted from the spot Kirby had put him in. Wasn't that bad for bed sores or something?

"Um." Kirby stared at the food in his hand. "Okay," he said slowly. He tore off a piece and held it near Marx's lips, uncertain.

Marx greedily licked off the foodbit. Piece by piece, he consumed all the bread, intermittently pausing for water. It was only at the last bit that he cupped Kirby's hand in his own and nuzzled his lips gently over his palm.

"Uh -?"

His tongue darted out and pressed against his palm, and at first Kirby was very confused at his intent – then suddenly there was a sharp pain just by his wrist and he yelped, yanking back his hand.

"Ow!" He shoved Marx hard. The jester only scowled and glared in response. Kirby felt a rush of power. For once, Marx really couldn't fight back. "What the heck did you do that for?" Kirby yelled at him, nursing his bleeding hand.

Marx licked his lips. "I miss the taste. Especially now…"

Kirby grimaced. "That doesn't mean you can bite me."

"How demanding you sound."

"I'm not being demanding. I'm just not letting you walk all over me."

"Hmm." Marx eyed him darkly. "Only while I'm helpless, I see."

"It's not just because you're h-"

"Go away. I want to sleep."

"You've been sleeping for –" Kirby cut off, because he wasn't sure how many hours (days?) that Marx had been asleep.

"I need more."

"But I had a question for you."

"Ask later."

"I brought you food," Kirby protested, spurred on by Marx's lack of resistance. "So you should answer my question."

"I never agreed to that." Apparently, Marx dismissed him, for he carefully coiled up beneath the sheets and closed his eyes.

"It's only one question."

"Hng."

Kirby took a deep breath. "Back in Dreamland… when you…" Hesitation. No. He tried to distance himself from the question, as if he were not asking for himself but rather for some other person, in some other world that had no emotional connection to himself. Only then could the words escape his lips, and even then he winced at their harsh chords:

"Did you…." _Kill-murder_ "When Fumu… I mean, did you, did you… She didn't survive, did she?"

Marx's eyes opened to expose little slivers of purple. Softly he murmured, "That's not the question I expected you to ask."

"Please answer."

"Yes." Marx curled his hands over his chest. His eyes fluttered closed and a small smile graced his face. "I killed her."

"You're certain? You're absolutely sure she wasn't….?"

"It had to be near the end when she stopped screaming. And then when she stopped struggling. And then I felt her pulse until that stopped too. I got r-"

But Kirby had had just about enough. With a hurt-loaded boldness, he grasped Marx's ankle and yanked him off the bed. The jester thumped down to the floor with a wounded yelp that turned into a furious snarl – but Kirby was storming out of the room before that snarl could form into words.

 

It didn't take too long for Kirby to come back. Marx had not moved from the floor.

"This is why I've never seen you teleport, isn't it?" Kirby squatted beside Marx. The jester's face was all squished up against the floor and one arm was twisted beneath his body. Sighing, Kirby set about placing the arm in a more comfortable position.

"Finally caught on, have you?" Marx snapped.

The fear that normally accompanied such bitterness was distinctively absent. Kirby wondered if it was wrong of him to feel so brave only when Marx couldn't fight back. Eventually, after all, he would get better, wouldn't he? And he wouldn't forget anything that had transpired.

"Why did you never tell me?" Kirby answered softly.

"Che. Since when have I told you anything?"

Kirby flinched. Well. That was a sufficient answer, no thanks. "I was actually worried about you, y'know. For some stupid reason."

"Not my problem."

"Can't you move? That looks really uncomfortable."

"Help me up."

Kirby faltered. "You're ready to stand?"

"To sit, dumbass. I'm talking to the carpet."

"Oh!" Flushing, Kirby grasped Marx's hand and helped him into a sitting position. This act, however small, seemed to deplete whatever store of energy the jester clung to still. His eyes fluttered shut and he wavered on the spot, precariously close to falling over again.

"I guess I shouldn't be concerned that you look terrible," grumbled Kirby. Shouldn't be, that is. His traitorous compassion had an awful habit of showing up when he least wanted it.

"Newp, newp," piped Marx, his eyes squeezed shut. "One hundred and two percent okay. That's me."

"You're not fooling anybody."

"Gotta work harder."

In half abstract musing, Kirby uttered without thought, "I shouldn't even be here. I should have nothing to do with you. Look what you did to Dreamland, to-" Her name still hurt.

Marx pinched one eye open, and the once vibrant purple of his irises had dulled to a disturbing sickly grey hue. "Again with Fumu. I thought you had gotten over that awhile ago."

"Gotten over?" Kirby yelped in indignation. "That isn't something you just get over, Marx!"

He shrugged. "I don't get it. She really wasn't that great to begin with."

"She was brilliant," snarled Kirby. He enunciated the final word with a hard shove to Marx's shoulder, which sent the jester sprawling back against the floor. Yet again, he seemed incapable of rising on his own.

"That's cool, a-okay," he muttered from the floor. "Just shove Marx because he can't respond. His new favorite hobby."

Just as soon as that anger flared in Kirby, it died and left something empty and tired within. Marx would never understand. For all his secrets and all his conniving manipulative ways, he would never understand the strength of friendship and human compassion. In this one aspect, he always fell short.

No use in becoming angry or bitter. No amount of righteous fury could change Marx's pitiful soullessness.

"You know you deserve it…"

"Nonsense. Are you going to help me up or just sit there?"

 _I'm too caring for my own good._ He tugged him back up and the jester glared with waning energy.

"So, why the tiredness?" Kirby inquired.

"Magic can't handle my level of awesome and so it decides to backlash."

"Magic?" _Of course: what else would it be?_ But the word itself niggled in his head, nudged at old old memories. Some kind of déjà vu, the heavy scent of the library, a flicker of pink, and then black text against yellow pages. If only he could remember more… Where had he heard that word before, that it brought such a sense of need?

"I can do more than just parlor tricks," sneered Marx. "I could do many things; if you'd seen the things I'd done…" Then Marx went very quiet and very still.

"Could do…?"

"Once upon a time."

Something clicked. "So… at one time, you could teleport without getting so tired, couldn't you?"

"Once upon a time," echoed Marx, with a smile that didn't match his eyes.

"So? What happened to make it so difficult?"

For a long time, Kirby didn't think he'd answer. Then, softly, "things happen. People do things. It happens."

People. It wasn't something; it was someone. "What kind of people?" Kirby uttered.

Marx snorted and laughed hollowly. "Sympathy, Kirby? Is that what I hear?"

Kirby stiffened. "Um." Yes. Or something like it at least. And he understood precisely why that wasn't okay. "I-I haven't forgiven you for that night, if you think I have."

Marx shrugged. "Didn't think you had. I'm a bastard and all, y'know."

Yeah, Kirby had no idea how to respond to that and he didn't like that Marx was making light of the night Fumu died – or rather, possibly didn't die. Stars this made everything so strange. Should he hate Marx more or less for not succeeding in what he'd attempted?

"You have your moments," Kirby said cautiously. "When you're kinder."

"Mm, really?"

"Sometimes you aren't cruel." He didn't know what this was – this caring, this softness. It was familiar enough, yes. Familiar as fear. But after everything he didn't know why it hadn't gone away.

"Sometimes," echoed Marx.

"Sometimes you're kinder." Abruptly, Kirby's recalcitrant thoughts sped back to that kiss three or so days ago. He'd certainly been kinder then. Mindful, even if only for a fleeting moment.

Kirby bit his lip hard. No, it was all levels wrong to be thinking of that, especially considering the current circumstances. _Makes sense, though. I haven't seen him in three days, and that's after…._ How many months together?

Marx was studying him quietly and Kirby looked away real fast. Something hurt in his chest, and he murmured, "I'm glad you're okay." _And less glad that nothing about this is okay._

He'd never been a solitary person. He had always craved warmth and light, and consequently touch and company. Marx's attention, however ambivalent, was the only remaining solace after memories of tenderness and human comfort. A three day absence served well to remind Kirby of just how much he needed those affections.

"Um," he said, because suddenly he noticed that several seconds had passed while Marx had sat there gazing at him pointlessly. He hates touch how am I supposed to instigate this kind of thing?

You shouldn't.

"Eloquent."

"I try," answered Kirby weakly. Vulnerability. Openness. Even weakness. How odd that he now thought to use these things to induce an interest he shouldn't even be seeking.

Every inch uncertain, he scooted closer until his knees brushed against Marx's. The jester remained complacently still.

Finding himself with an alarming amount of confidence - or stupidity - Kirby silently undid, one by one, the buttons of his shirt. He intended to undo them all, in some half-conceived offer to Marx. However, consciously aware of the other's scrutiny, he faltered halfway through and dropped his hands to his sides. Face beet-red, he avoided Marx's eyes. _WhatamIdoingwhatamIdoingwhatamIdoingstop._

"Interesting," enunciated Marx.

"S-sorry." Kirby set about re-buttoning his shirt, aflame with humiliation, when Marx's hands clamped down on his wrists and wrenched them apart.

Oh. Well.

Marx answered by crawling into his lap; and then suddenly they were pressed flush together. Kirby closed his eyes and very carefully ensured his hands remained inconspicuously at his side – he did not dare touch for fear of disturbing the momentary peace. The synchronization of their heartbeats warmed him, but it could not make him smile, not now.

Abruptly, he felt the jester's tongue on his neck and he shivered. Okay, so things were a little different with Marx, a little more than just warmth and human company.

"You missed me." Kirby said softly.

"Hnf. Nah."

Kirby rolled his eyes. Might as well let Marx believe what he wanted to. When the licking got more insistent, he tilted his chin up for better access.

"If you didn't miss me, I missed you," admitted Kirby.

"Hm." He paused to study Kirby thoughtfully. "I suppose there are things I missed about you. You cook well."

"You're so stubborn."

"I call it tenacious. It's a good quality. Marxes everywhere wish they had my talent."

Kirby chuckled. "I'm pretty sure you're the only one."

"Aw, thanks." Marx's lip curled into a knife of a smile; Kirby's eyes followed the sliver of his teeth. Relinquishing all logic and reason, he swept forward and pressed their lips together in a gesture both needy and firm, so prepared for a repeat of events from before. It took him less than a second to know he'd done something wrong:

From the moment their lips made contact, Marx's entire body went tense over him; with an insulted hiss, Marx reared away from the touch. At once his nails dug into Kirby's shoulders to a pressure great enough to bite into the skin.

"Ow, ow-"

"Why did you do that?" growled Marx.

"You've done it to me," Kirby yelped, flailing in the chaos of uncertainty and confusion – what could he have possibly done wrong this time? "Please, you're hurting me."

Reluctantly, Marx released his hold and contented himself with glaring daggers at Kirby. "You _liked_ it?" he uttered in pure incredulity.

Then level of disbelief in his voice made Kirby flinch. What kind of question was that? "N-not always, not when you bite, but I mean, last time, last time you were nicer."

"Hm." Marx's outrage dwindled into something more placid, curious. Encouraged, Kirby continued;

"M-maybe it's stupid. But when you're nicer, it seems like you care." _Like I'm not here for pure entertainment, like I'm worth something to –_

_Like I'm just so starved of any closeness and please say something._

_I shouldn't be doing this_

_I shouldn't be_

Slowly, painstakingly slowly, Marx tilted his head to the side. Despite the dullness of his eyes, despite the fatigue etched in every line of his face, his mind was whirring, calculating, assessing, piecing together words and emotions. Then it stopped.

A languid smile spread across his face. Sinister or kind, Kirby could not discern.

"You like the gentleness?"

Kirby nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

"Like…" His hands trickled through Kirby's hair, settled over his shoulders; when he leaned in a second time, his kiss was a delicate caress that started slow and steadily deepened. An involuntary shiver traveled down Kirby's spine; Marx had never taken this much care before. _What is wrong with him?_

His pulse was skittering fast in his veins, whether for fear or something else, he didn't know. Marx's mouth parted into a grin and Kirby could feel his fangs against his lips. Yet again, the threat of subtle danger, the grim reminder of something twisted beneath the surface. The reminder of things he shouldn't be doing.

Together they fell in slow motion until the floorboards pressed against his back, and Marx was poised on top of him, his lips following the line of his jaw. Hands slipped up beneath the hem of his shirt and roamed over smooth skin; unconsciously, Kirby arched into the touch and he was so close to blindly giving in.

_What if she really isn't dead?_

_Nono not right now I don't want to think about that._

How would this change if Meta Knight's words were true?

If they were true… if they were true… Half-dazed, Kirby imagined the blinding light of Dreamland, a cheerful smile both reassuring and familiar, her endless faith and her immense capacity for loyalty and caring. Her love of learning, her patience, her adherence to all things good and true.

If only she could see him now. _Stars._

What would he say? How could he possibly explain this? Why should he have to try to explain it?

_Nonono –_

Kirby scrambled out from beneath the tangle of blanket and Marx and scrambled to his feet, panting. Marx, for his part, appeared unable to hold himself up and instead plopped onto his side, closing his eyes. "Hnff. Come back. You were warm," he whined.

"No," he breathed.

"Suit yourself, Kay. It's much more comfortable here, though, I promise."

"No." He backpedaled, growing more horrified as his skin chilled.

"You're silly," sighed Marx. For all intents and purposes, he seemed content enough to fall right back asleep.

Meanwhile, Kirby felt distinctly that he'd never want to sleep again – he rushed out of the room and slammed the bathroom door behind him.

In the shower, he scrubbed his skin hard but could not rinse away the invisible taint. Relinquishing his vain attempts, he laid his forehead against the shower wall and let the water run over him long after it had gotten cold, and then to the point it stopped on its own.

Finally, shivering, he dressed and left the bathroom. By involuntary whim, he wandered to the control deck. Long expanses of desert and sandy dunes sprawled out from the windshield. Of course… They hadn't left Nashira yet. A soldier clad in all grey marched by the windshield; Kirby tensed.

They had the Halberd on watch? Made sense – they had no way of knowing where exactly Kirby and Marx had teleported to, which meant that naturally they would try to guard the Halberd to prevent them from reaching it and escaping.

Kirby couldn't help a small smile: Kavika had no idea that they were already on the Halberd. Regardless, though, they should probably leave soon, lest Kavika find some way to either break into the Halberd or keep it grounded forever.

Kavika… He hoped the Earl was okay. Although Kirby disagreed with Kavika's support of capital punishment, he did still respect the man. He had acted only in the manner he deemed just, and he had been nothing but sympathetic to Kirby from the start.

Frowning, Kirby's gaze traveled to the Halberd's control. They were six months from Dreamland, now. But it wasn't too late to return, was it? Maybe just to visit, to see if Fumu was there. But if she was, what then? It may not be too late to stop by, but it was far too late to repair all the damage. Even if Marx hadn't killed her, he'd tried, and –

Kirby's blood ran cold. _And Marx thinks he succeeded._ If he learned that Fumu still lived… then bringing him back to Dreamland was the very last thing Kirby ought to do. His heart sank. So even if Meta Knight was right, nothing could change.

No… not nothing. Maybe he couldn't return to Dreamland, and maybe he shouldn't. But he could do something else.

So long ago, Meta Knight had trained him to fight, as if preparing him for something. Further, he knew there was something different (he hesitated to say special) about his origin – otherwise Marx wouldn't act so secretive. In all this time, he'd only made the poorest of efforts to learn those secrets.

But Khayla had awoken in him a memory of his initial purpose. See… she had had a goal in mind, a dream – to one day fly in a warship. He had started with a goal as well. Together Khayla and Meta Knight had somehow solidified that goal, pushed it to the forefront of his mind. It was long past time he pursued it.

First, though… to leave Nashira.

 

"How long until you get better?" Kirby grunted as he half-lead half-carried Marx to the control deck. He'd just rousted the jester from yet another deep sleep, and it appeared that Marx was still feeling woozy.

"Ten years. Two days. Five sloths." Marx giggled. "It shouldn't be too long now. It wouldn't take so long if you fed me properly."

So much time with this as his companion made it pretty easy to guess what he meant. "Bleck. That's not happening, Marx." Apparently the cartload of additional food he'd given Marx just short of an hour ago wasn't sufficient for 'energy regeneration.'

"Not even one little soldier?"

"No."

They staggered into the control deck and Marx slumped into the captain's chair. "It smells like death in here," he grumbled.

"You kinda threw up in here," Kirby pointed out.

"Eeww, you didn't clean it up?"

Kirby facepalmed. "Yes, I did, but still-"

"Eeww, you kissed me."

"Um." Suddenly he felt extremely uncomfortable and licked his own teeth uneasily. "Errm. That's…"

"Hehehe. You're disgusting, Kay." Marx splayed his spidery fingers over the controls. "Ahh, it's good to be back."

"I really want to brush my teeth." And tongue. And wash out his mouth about ten different times.

"Hmm, well, you can't go far right now; I need you to walk."

"You're not walking right now."

"Schematics." The familiar low hum of the Halberd rose into life, at first beginning as a click then a nearly inaudible purr, until it rose in intensity. How comforting that sound had become... Kirby placed his hand on the control board, just to feel the aliveness of the ship.

The enormous wings unfurled from the hull and arced out to each side, like animal stretching, before they settled properly into place.

Outside soldiers were rushing around, shouting and waving their arms. The hull entirely shut out the noise, and at their height Kirby thought they looked like small toy soldiers darting about.

Then the jets underneath the Halberd flared to life with short bursts of flame, and they fled like terrified chickens. "Don't hurt them," Kirby murmured, glancing at Marx. There wasn't any real need to attack: now that they had regained the Halberd, their escape was secured. Already the Halberd gently rocked into the air, hovering a few feet above the ground. But knowing Marx, he might want to chase them for fun.

When he returned the comment with an annoyed side-glance, Kirby knew he had assumed correctly. Despite this, he allowed them to flee unhindered and instead directed the Halberd up and away from the city.

"Thank you," Kirby breathed.

"Oh, that wasn't for you. I didn't want to hang around the city too long. We'd be sitting ducks." Marx's eyes combed the sky overhead with an unnatural cautiousness. The Halberd ascended very gradually, as if he was reluctant to leave at all. Instinctively, Kirby imitated Marx's watchfulness, though he didn't understand what was there to be seen.

"Why?" he inquired. "They wouldn't be able to get through the hull."

"No, but missiles might be able to."

The other ships. How had he forgotten? They'd only managed to land by faking their identities. Now that they both were wanted criminals, how could they ever hope to escape?

Sure enough, a black swarm rose with them. They were at once surrounded, enclosed. Nashira ships blotted out the sky and stared down the Halberd with thousands of cold glass eyes. Kirby shrank away from the windshield. They wouldn't escape. They would never leave this planet.

Marx laughed at his fear. "They're smaller than I expected. I think I'm getting good at this…"

"At…?"

With disturbing precision, Marx opened fire – and Kirby realized he never should have worried. On the blast of the Halberd's missiles, a sick declaration of a horribly cockeyed battle, the swarm of ships retorted with hundreds of bullets.

The warship lurched in avoidance, only for Marx to grin manically. "They don't have missiles! Oh, Kay, that's even better."

The shields had no trouble with the small, weaker bullets – meanwhile, the Halberd's missiles nailed ship by ship to the horizon and condemned each one to spiral downwards. Ships ripped apart by some invisible godly hand; right before Kirby's eyes they shredded themselves to pieces. And then, just like that, there were no more ships to protest their departure.

The Halberd emerged from that black cloud of ruin, rising above the shredded ship parts. Kirby watched those remains plummet to Nashira through the corner of the windshield that displayed a rearview. He felt sick to his stomach, and betrayed by his own feelings.

Destroying the ships has been their only option of escape, and a considerable relief soothed him in knowing they were successful. At the same time, this escape was wrought by the deaths of people whom had only been trying to protect their planet. He found the thought to be more digestible when he pictured the downed ships as mere mechanical creatures, not piloted by sentient life.

Marx pressed the speed of the now bruised Halberd to near its fastest clip to avoid further pursuit. Thankfully, this meant they also rapidly left the signs of carnage. Soon Nashira was only a yellow dot in the rear-view camera. Marx let the Halberd's break neck speed slow to a lazy drift before reclining back in the chair.

Kirby gazed out at Nashira falling away from them. He felt sick and saddened.

"It won't always end this way… will it, Marx? We won't always…" Won't always leave a planet in a worse state than they found it. Create destruction wherever they tread. Run from everything they'd done wrong. Kill.

Marx didn't answer.

"Surely there's something good we can do," Kirby mused. Still no answer. Was he even listening? Annoyed, Kirby turned on his heel. "Mar-" he stopped. The jester sat slumped in the captain's chair, his haunted eyes staring at the fuel gauge. Iciness crawled over Kirby's skin.

"We never got fuel," Kirby realized belatedly.

Marx's eyes didn't move. "Nope."

"Don't we... need that?"

Marx met his gaze. "Yeah, fuel tends to be helpful. Keeps the whole ship running. No big deal."

Kirby nodded slowly. He distinctly remembered, quite a while ago, though he'd lost all sense of precisely when, that the Halberd first ran out of fuel.

The ship had been unresponsive to any commands and drifted, no more than a large, finely- crafted chunk of metal, through space at a snail's pace. For two days Marx and Kirby scoured every nook and cranny of the vast ship, exploring hallways and rooms that they never even knew existed, climbing to the very height of the tower and descending to the Halberd's lowest storage room in search of spare fuel. In this time, the Halberd was reduced to the silence and darkness of a cave, for the electricity had sputtered out with the engines. By weak candlelight they crept through the bowels of the ship and it was in the basement that they found barrels of reserve fuel, of a dark, oily substance. After nearly accidentally setting fire to the barrels, Marx had rolled them up the stairs and the two had refilled the Halberd's tank together.

The problem was that they'd used all of the reserve fuel. There was nothing left.

"Shouldn't we…" Do something. Do what? Do anything.

"Sleep," shrugged Marx, leaning his head against the chair.

The sheer fact of the matter was that they could not do anything about it. Returning to Nashira would surely get them locked up, and quite possibly killed.

"What about the maps?" Kirby said slowly. "Before you got imprisoned, you mentioned that you'd gotten some books from Nashira's library. Couldn't we find the nearest planet?"

"Hmm, true. Still, I never got a map for Halcandra."

Kirby scowled. "Well, we can worry about that after we make sure we don't die in space."

"Temper, temper."

Gritting his teeth, Kirby restrained the urge to lash back out. Halcandra was just another secret. Another reminder of how little he knew. Furthermore, he was quite certain their priority at the moment ought to be survival, not tracking down some distant little-heard-of planet.

Marx, for his part, appeared to be falling asleep again.

"Maybe we should go look at those books now," prompted Kirby suggestively. "If we're running out of fuel it seems like we should kinda do that soon. Like now."

"Hnff," slurred Marx.

Peering over the chair, Kirby found that Marx had indeed fallen dead asleep again. He facepalmed and turned away.

Looked like things were up to him for now. And perhaps that was a good thing. On his own, with a store of books of the universe at his deposal.

Maybe he'd find something more than a temporary destination for fuel.


	8. Chapter 8

Dreamland's weather never failed to please: true to its name, it provided nothing but dream-like days and cool, cozy nights. Lately, however, the peaceful town had been seized by a determination and noise like none other. By the golden light of dawn, the fields nearby King Dedede's castle were abounding with the sound of wooden swords clacking together, excited shouts in a strange language, and the scuffling of feet over grass.

Two individuals, perched on the mount leading up to the now rebuilt castle, overlooked this action with fond smiles.

"I think they're picking it up quickly," said Captain Doo proudly.

"They're certainly enthusiastic," agreed Fumu. A year's passing had grown out her burnt hair about halfway to her ears; she kept it tamed by a green and yellow headband. She hid most of the burns scrawled across her flesh by wearing long sleeves, but those unhidden always made the villagers cringe. Perhaps that was why she spent increasing amounts of time training with or overseeing the orange-outfitted servants – although Captain Doo could think of a few other reasons as well.

Nonetheless, you would never have guessed anything had ever gone wrong, not with her curiously optimistic attitude lately.

"Captain Doo!" up came running one of the many servants, his sword bouncing at his hip.

"Enoch," Captain Doo greeted. "Is the fighting going well?"

"Much, sir!"

"Very well," Fumu corrected: Enoch was one of the few servants that had resolved to learn the English language. Although he had picked it up remarkably fast, his grammar was something to sigh over.

"Oh." Enoch smiled and peered up at her through feathery-light and tawny bangs. "Thank you, miss Fumu."

"You don't need to call me miss, Enoch."

"Sorry, Fumu. Did you want anything to eat or drink?"

Fumu sighed, "You don't need to cook anymore either, silly. You signed up to defend Dreamland; that means you don't need to work in the kitchens."

"But I am a really well cook," Enoch admitted, rolling on his heels. "And I like helping."

Fumu laughed, relenting. "Okay, okay. I'll have lemonade."

"Okay!" Enoch ran off, his little legs churning and the sword bouncing wildly at his hip again.

"He doesn't have much of a taste for war," chuckled Captain Doo.

"Honestly? I don't think any of them do." Fumu leaned back against the grassy knoll, shadowed somewhat by the mammoth castle. She felt her own sword jostle against her back and she shifted her position accordingly. "For our own sake, I hope they never will need to."

Captain Doo folded his arms over his knees; chocolate brown hair fell over his eyes. "I'm scared. I want to look after each of them so badly, but with Meta Knight gone and this war looming…. I'm so scared that I won't be able to protect them all."

"Meta Knight's going to make it better. He's going to get Kirby back, and he'll stop all of this. In the meantime, we just have to do what we can to keep faith."

"I hope you're right," the Captain said, gazing out over the servants that in the end, were so much more like children to him. "I really hope you're right."

 

Endless perusing with nothing but hope to go on yet again proved to Kirby his naiveté. The books Marx had gotten appeared to be hastily snatched and dumped upon the floor – if Kirby's experience told him anything, it was that Marx had simply stolen them without even pretending to check them out from the library.

As such, he appeared to have just taken the entire section on astrology and maps. Book after book supplied Kirby with large fold-out maps of a staggering number of planets, each with names just as foreign as the next. Confronted with a universe of a size he'd never dreamed, Kirby felt hopelessly powerless.

Never having asked Marx what Dreamland's planet was called, he had no idea what to use as a point of reference aside from Nashira.

Unfortunately, it also took him an obnoxiously long time to locate even Nashira within any of the books. After doing so, he found the nearest body was predictably either of Nashira's two moons, neither of which might be habitable or have starship fuel. Furthermore, he couldn't understand the distance units because they were not similar to Dreamland's units – what were lightyears, what were kilometers? Dreamland had no such terms.

Finally, despairing of his ability to search on his own and yet reluctant to get Marx, he settled with flipping aimlessly through the books. Never, in all his time within Dreamland, had he ever imagined the absolute immensity of the universe. His fingers skimmed over full-color photos of whole galaxies (which were apparently huge collections of solar systems, which were huge collections of planets).

How absurdly unbelievable that he once thought his world was contained to a single town. He'd always known of Dreamland's moon, of course, but never... never really thought about what it was, or why it was there. It had simply never been important; it rose and fell with the night, and had no further mysteries to it.

Observing all these places, imagining all the people, the languages, coins, notes, colors, outfits... On one hand, it was overwhelming. On another, it was... exciting. He wondered placidly if, after he found out all he needed to know about himself and Meta Knight's past, he and Marx could just travel. The wild colors of the world could be manageable and amazing if dispersed properly with the calm familiarity of the Halberd.

Sighing, Kirby folded up the map and neatly stacked all the books. It was probably time to take a leaf from Marx's book and sleep and pretend nothing was going wrong. After all, he hadn't exactly rested since they'd left the planet: Marx had been sleeping enough for the both of them, but it was starting to catch up to him.

 

Kirby woke an indeterminate amount of time later in complete blackness. Upon realizing he was alone, he remembered that Marx had fallen asleep in the captain's chair. _Oops. Probably should have moved him…_ Kirby skirted around the blanket on the floor _deliberately not remembering anything about that whole scenario._

Wandering into the hall, he heard indistinguishable murmuring from the very living room in which Marx had dropped all those books before. Sighing, he followed the sound and peered around the doorway.

It looked like Marx had every single book and map spread in a circle around him on the floor. The jester himself sat cross-legged, leaning over a particularly large atlas that depicted an enormous full color picture of a pinwheel-like galaxy. All around the edges of the page were arrows pointing to solar systems within the galaxy. Every once in a while Marx would flick to the later pages of the book, where there were pictures of the solar systems themselves. Absorbed as he was, he didn't notice Kirby, and continued to mutter under his breath to himself.

"...nonspecific, how is it supposed to be found that way? Doesn't... how big the universe is... asking Marx to... should've made him..."

"Feeling better?" Kirby supplied.

"It's not like I have the… he remembers better anyway."

"I said," Kirby repeated, louder, "are you feeling better?"

Marx flinched so violently as to send torn pages fluttering about everywhere. "Ah." He squinted up at Kirby. "Hey hey hey."

"Did you find the nearest planet?"

"Nearest… Yes. Marx turned the Halberd towards it. Just a matter of time."

Kirby sighed and sat down beside Marx. "Why do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Talk in third person like that."

Marx's eyes yanked to Kirby's lightening-quick. "Don't you ever?" he smiled vacantly. "Sometimes you just don't want to be yourself."

All the sudden Kirby really wished Marx would just go back to normal. "S-so," he said, "what are you doing now?"

"These are maps," Marx said, gesturing loosely at the mess of papers sprawled across the floor. "Of galaxies, planets – all wide-space. Wide-scale, I mean. I was searching for Halcandra."

Again with that place. If it meant so much to him, why had he never gone before? Why wait to mention it until very recently, and why stay in Dreamland for all the years the Dream Landers claimed him to live there?

It didn't make sense. He'd known about the Halberd long before they'd escaped with it.

Glancing at these maps again, he suddenly recalled Khayla's inquiry – _what's the name of your planet?_ He'd made a mental note to ask.

"Marx?"

The jester did not at first reply. He was bent over a book – with a jolt of unease Kirby saw his lips were moving soundlessly again.

"Marx?

No response.

"Marx!" he grabbed his wrist – instantly, Marx yanked his wrist out of his grip;

"Don't touch me!" Growling, he clenched his fists into his hair, up beneath his hat, and hissed, "It's not anywhere! It doesn't exist! There is no Halcandra."

"Hey," Kirby said carefully, "Take it easy, okay? Breathe deep." Not for the first time, he wished Marx came with an instruction manual. 'How to handle extreme emotional crises', for one thing, would be nice. "This doesn't have to be so bad. You'll find it eventually, you know. You kind of always seem to get what you want in the end."

Marx lurched to his feet, his eyes aflame with mania, his lips pulled back from his teeth. "I always get what I want? _I_ always get what I want? Hah! Oh, Kay, you are rich. Because I wanted to be stuck on this ship with you, without direction or meaning, because I wanted to – gkkk." He shuddered.

"U-um. Marx, please calm down. I didn't mean anything by that, I was just saying... I mean, you got the Halberd, you escaped Nashira, you got…" _Me._

"Easy for you to be calm," snarled Marx, jabbing his finger at Kirby savagely, "You have always had everything! You've been spoiled, softened, fed on a silver platter, you righteous heroic Dream Lander. Your birth moved fucking planets, and you just walked around with your head in the clouds like it's the latest- fffff." Marx clutched his chest and curled into himself, legs trembling. His too-long hair fell over his eyes, disguising his contorted expression.

"We never fixed your leg," Kirby realized belatedly, "Marx, did you even clean it out?" But it didn't even need to be asked, because he knew Marx too well. Kirby slowly got to his own feet, holding out his hands placating. "Please… let me help you."

"Help?" Marx threw back his head and laughed. "Please, my dear Kay, tell me how you can help me."

"I can fix your leg at least… and then maybe we can sleep, right? I… I think you need more rest, Marx. You aren't better yet."

"Rest. Better." His teeth ground together, fangs bared, lips pulled back into a morbid facsimile of a grin. "It doesn't help. What's the point of sleeping when you can't dream, Kirby? Huh?"

"Wait. What?"

Marx spread out his fingers, palms facing forward, arms and eyes wide. "I can't dream."

"What? You mean you don't-"

"I never dream." Marx dropped his arms and smiled a small smile, one that somehow managed to look broken.

"Ever?" Kirby said softly. It seemed like such a strange, small thing, to never dream. Something of perhaps little point or meaning. He could not fathom what Marx's dreams would be like, but he could imagine his own, and with a horrible wonder think about what it would be like to never experience them again.

Marx widened that unnatural smile. His eyes lacked any real luster or cheer. He shrugged. "When I go to sleep, Kirby, I see only blackness. No matter what I try-" he gestured blindly at something, events in his past, not all things which Kirby could see, "from sleeping all day, not sleeping for days, thinking about things before I sleep, not thinking about things before I sleep, eating piles of sugar at night, hallucinogens - oh, I don't know - eating enough Narcao to almost kill myself!" His voice reached another octave on the last word before breaking off.

"Oh." Something seemed to shrivel within Kirby. He wasn't sure what to say or do. How to react. Sometimes that happened when Marx told the truth. "Why?" It sounded cold even to his own ears and he cringed.

"Because the world is eeevilll," grinned Marx. "But hey, so am I! So, you know, in the grand scheme of things, I gu-"

Kirby surged forward and wrapped his arms around Marx's torso – the jester froze in place, his hands held at his sides with his fingers spread stiffly.

"I don't forgive you for anything," Kirby whispered softly. "There aren't any excuses for the things you do. But I'm sorry for whatever's happened to you too."

Silence. Long and fragile. If Marx was going to murder Kirby, then Kirby really hoped he would have gotten it over by now and that they were in safe territory.

Delicately Marx touched Kirby's shoulders with the tips of his fingers and pushed him away like a distasteful pet. Though his eyes were narrowed, Kirby could not exactly say they were hostile. "Hm. That's, um…" He cleared his throat. "Clean up these books. Then fix my leg. It hurts like murder. Yes." Still wearing an extremely confused expression, he stalked out of the room.

 

"How'd it go?" Magolor asked, sauntering up beside Meta Knight.

"He hung up."

"What, like –"

"But not terrible."

Magolor frowned. "He hung up on you but it didn't go bad?"

"No." Meta Knight smiled softly beneath his mask. "It was… good to see him again, if unsettling. And I think I made my message clear." He'd set the seed, at least, of something that must grow well. Meta Knight knew that even the most lost of people could find their way from hell again. And the very thing that inevitably brought all men back was hope. With luck, he'd given that to Kirby.

Finally… after so many months, something was going right. He closed his eyes, and turning, leaned against the control board. Slowly he let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding.

"Hey…" Magolor said softly, "you okay?"

"Relieved," Meta Knight admitted, eyes still closed. "As if my armor is already lighter."

"Ah." Magolor smiled uncertainly. "Sometimes it's hard to tell with your mask in the way. Well, it's good seeing you happy for once."

"Hm?" Meta Knight let one eye open. "Am I not usually?"

"Oh yeah, act like you don't know," Magolor rolled his eyes. "I'm just glad your friend seems to put you in a better mood – even if he did hang up on you. Ah, what was his name again?"

"I had never told you."

"Oh."

Meta Knight stepped away from the control board. Out of habit, he wrapped the cape about himself; meanwhile, his eyes shimmered that emerald green that Magolor had begun to associate with deep thought. "His name," the knight murmured, "is Kirby. He hails from Dreamland."

"Kirby," Magolor echoed. "Interesting name. No relation to the Kirby of the Stars, right?"

Meta Knight stiffened. "You've heard of the legend?"

"Sure. I mean, don't most people know it?"

"No. There is no relation."

Magolor chuckled. "Right, of course. It's just a legend, after all. Sorry, I just-"

"No apology necessary."

"No, don't get all distant and empty again," Magolor growled. "Honestly, Meta Knight, I think you're easier to read than you let on. It can't be healthy to be that tense all the time."

Perhaps he was right. After everything that occurred in Dreamland last year, he'd been more uptight than ever – likely because everything had depended on this one final plan. _Or perhaps because you've gotten a soft spot for the warrior of the stars._ Meta Knight narrowed his eyes. By his very nature, he'd never expected something like that. It was out of the question, having any sort of fatherly role over anyone. He simply wasn't suited for the caring, the looking after, the tenderness. He was bred for war, and it was war where he belonged.

But it happened anyway, evidently. The stars conspired against – or with – him to make it so.

"I do not intend to be distant," Meta Knight uttered. "It is a consequence of my heritage."

"Your... Ah. You said you weren't from Dreamland. Instead you are…?"

"I'm not in the habit of telling others."

"Aw come on." Magolor spread out his gloved hands. "I'm your friend, right? We've been hanging out for like half a year, and I don't even know your real name, or your identity. Y'know, I've never seen you without your mask!"

Meta Knight smirked. "Neither have I seen you without your scarf."

Magolor floundered. "Um, well. Fantastic point."

"Also, you do know my real name."

Magolor raised an eyebrow. "Meta Knight is your real name?"

"Indeed."

"MK, that's a really crappy name. What were your parents thinking?"

Meta Knight answered, with a gleam of pink in his eyes, "It was not my parents who named me. No… No, it was a friend of mine, although not a friend at the time. I believe he meant it to be demeaning, but with a little help it took another meaning."

"Demeaning?"

"Yes. In the military, it was common practice to use 'knight' as a suffix for one's name. It was nothing but an empty title for lower ranks. Further, 'meta' is a word that generally refers to itself; if given nothing more as reference than an empty, low class title, then that is what I was."

"Meta Knight, I think you need better friends. They don't seem to be very nice to you."

"We were not friends at the time, you must understand. But as I said, the name's meaning did change. There was a very small sect of warriors who adhered to a particular code of conduct. These were the true knights of the military; who fought with honor and courage. I undertook many challenges in order to be called one of their number, and with many hardships I was at last officially knighted and welcomed amongst them."

"Hey, that's impressive. You took someone else's insulting label and used it against them."

Meta Knight nodded, the pink fading from his eyes with the memories. "Yes. Slowly, I proved this man wrong about myself. And in time we forged a bond stronger than I ever expected. He was a brilliant general."

"So…" Magolor squirmed. "I'm kinda curious, MK. It sounds like he named you when you were old enough to fight, but it's not like you can just go through your life until then without having a name, y'know?"

"You can have a number," Meta Knight said, and left it at that. It wasn't a topic he was particularly fond of, and anyway he wasn't willing to divulge that much to Magolor yet.

"Ah." Yet again, Magolor seemed to understand nearly instantly that Meta Knight wanted to speak no more on the subject; for someone who often played the fool, he did have an intelligent mind behind his dark eyes.

Meta Knight smiled indulgingly, although he was sure the effect was lost behind his mask. "It seems almost humorous now. After countless conquests and immeasurable courage in battle, I've proven to be in so many ways ignorant of pure human nature. All of this trouble could have been sideswept if only I had acted differently a year ago."

"Guess we all have regrets, huh?"

"So it seems."

"Honestly..." Magolor lowered his eyes. "I think I have more than I ever imagined when I was younger. I'm eager to make things right. But then... sometimes not so much."

"I hope the eagerness weighs out," Meta Knight said, "for I meant to inform you that the Lor Starcutter's repairs are finished as of this afternoon. We are free to depart at will."

Magolor's light brown face paled. "Oh. Um, well that's wonderful! We can leave pretty soon then, huh?"

"Whenever you are ready."

"We could probably have dinner in the town first."

Meta Knight's brow furrowed. "Magolor, it is three in the afternoon."

"Oh." Magolor rubbed his hands together. "In that case, where is it you wanted to go again; Mekkai, right? The machine planet?"

"Correct," Meta Knight said slowly, "but it seems as though you are reluctant to depart…"

Magolor slumped. "… Do you ever want something really badly, but then the closer you get to it, the more real it becomes and… and you start becoming afraid?"

"I cannot say I have. If I am to want something, I will want it with my entire being. The act of pursuing something is no small thing."

"Oh." Magolor adjusted his scarf quietly.

"If something bothers you so much, I would say that it is not something you ought to be pursuing."

"Your friend," Magolor said suddenly, "the one who named you."

"Yes?"

"If he needed something, no matter what it was, would you help him?"

"I… Yes. Loyalty is of supreme importance to me."

Magolor swallowed. His hands unconsciously played with his scarf, and his eyes darted to the side.

"Is there something wrong?"

"No." Magolor's eyes crinkled into a smile and he dropped his hands. "No, it's fine! You're right, MK. I just need to relax or something."

 

Kirby tread out of the bedroom and wound his way back to the control deck, lulled by the sound of the five engines. Their effect, as always, was very nearly therapeutic. To them he could always sleep, by them troubles tended to slip away. He slipped through the doors and spotted that multicolored hat above the chair back.

Still sleeping, then.

Silently, Kirby approached and peered down.

Marx's head was tilted back on the chair, his jester hat slipping off and mouth partly opened. The computer screens cast their familiar glow upon his face while painting dark shadows beneath his closed eyes. Kirby sighed. Somehow, seeing Marx sleep always put him in a heavy mood. He looked so unlike himself; peaceful, undisturbed. Innocent. Someone like Marx should never look so innocent when they slept. Yet it never failed to stir Kirby's faith in Marx's rare but existent kindness. That was why it hurt a little: because as soon as morning would come, he would be disappointed.

Kirby fancifully imagined slipping Narcao into Marx's food to have him always peaceful, but he knew he'd never do something like that. Anyway, he didn't think they'd brought any of that stuff on the Halberd. He wondered vaguely how Dreamland was doing, if the nightmares had stopped.

Then a sliver of purple gleamed as Marx opened one eye the slightest bit. The light reflected oddly upon it; created a miniscule moon-like orb. Marx's breathing shallowed slightly as consciousness returned. "Watching me sleep?" His voice was still slow and heavy. "That's in the Stalker's Handbook, Kay."

Kirby allowed himself a small smile. "You would know."

"Only 'cuz I stole it from Meta Knight."

The name stung; a reminder of the past. But Kirby knew that Marx hadn't meant it to hurt this time. "You don't think he'll want that back?"

"Nah. He's got the whole thing memorized anyway."

Kirby laughed quietly. "Your hat's about to fall off, by the way."

"Nuuu... not the hat." Marx pulled it down over his eyes and slumped in the chair. For all intents and purposes, it looked as though he'd gone back to sleep.

"Marx?"

"Mhn."

"Is that chair really comfortable?"

"If you normally sleep on bricks."

"... Sounds pleasant."

Marx shrugged dismissively in response and tugged his hat further down. Daringly, Kirby moved closer and placed one hand on the arm rest, lightly touching Marx's forearm. When there was no protest, he took a deep breath and clambered onto Marx's lap, exceptionally careful not to jostle him. Once there, he simply sat awkwardly with his legs stiffly folded under him, and studied Marx to ensure that it wasn't bothering him.

"You're gonna cut off the circulation in my legs," was the flat comment.

Kirby peeled back the front of his hat just enough that he could see the pair of purple eyes lazily glaring at him. "Seriously," Marx protested, "You're morbidly obese."

"I'm obese?"

"Mmyeppp." Pause. He listened to the hum of the engines for a moment, thinking. Then:

"Can I stay?"

"Depends. If I can't feel my legs in the morning, I have permission to cut off yours."

Kirby carefully considered a reply. "I think I'll take the risk."

"That's what you think now. Just wait till it's morning and you have leg removal on your schedule."

"Tomorrow…" Kirby said softly, "will you help me look through those books?"

"After I take off your legs, maybe." Marx's eyes were definitely clearing. His next words were sharper, "Are you incapable of sleeping?"

"Sorry. Doing that now." Kirby placed the band back over his eyes. Marx stuck out his tongue, but did nothing more. Relieved, Kirby shifted his cramping legs and curled up on Marx's chest. Definitely not the most comfortable thing in the world... but much better than going back to the room alone.

There was a simpler time, where good and evil had clear lines and defenders of freedom never came under question. This was a time of noble and blameless warriors, those that began with Galacta Knight and ended with Sir Arthur. This was a time when the GSA's polished name had not yet been dragged through the mud, and when Holy Nightmare Company, in its fledgling and middle years, was widely known as evil.

Unfortunately, no one had the luxury any more to discriminate so harshly between good and evil.

Something else had risen, something long hidden, something birthed from the primordial chaos of the world, something older than time itself.

Zero Two had tired of things so ephemeral and impulsive. Wars that ended as soon as they began, meaningless bloodshed and sacrifice, betrayal and human emotion. So Zero Two, patient and deliberate, decided to reclaim the universe as his, and in doing so, plunge it back into the infernal darkness it once knew.

At first, his re-emergence did not bring any great concern:

In fact, it seemed almost humorous that this Zero could pose any sort of threat when, after several months of scattered attacks, not a single casualty in the war was attributed to him. He had but a small army, and although Zero several times pitted them against Nightmare's demons or the GSA's soldiers, they never took a single life. They came in, fought, and scattered.

Nightmare laughed and renewed his attacks on the GSA with vigor. Sir Arthur remained dubious but eventually had to admit that the unknown face behind the 'Dark Matter' attacks posed absolutely no threat.

How ignorant they had been, then, like children wandering in the dark. They could have no conception of what Zero was then. They did learn, though... eventually.

See, Zero did not kill. Neither did he need to. He very slowly and very thoroughly destroyed people, without ever touching their physical body.

It took months, years even, for the effects to be noticed, and even longer for the GSA to realize the source. The GSA soldiers that had fought at any time against the Dark Matter soldiers fell into a slow, twisted decline. Motivation vanished, as did strength. Some terrible invisible force wasted their bodies and minds, destroyed willpower, courage, meaning. By the end, they were left as lifeless husks, with no energy to live, and no energy to die, consumed by perpetual negative feelings, incapable of hope or love.

They became, in many ways, a reflection of Zero himself.

Not that they knew that, of course. Zero never made his own appearance known. He wasn't arrogant like Nightmare, or infuriatingly courageous like Sir Arthur. He did not need people to know his name and face – these were petty wishes, beneath him.

He worked now as he had always done, and as he always would do – gradually, meticulously, missing no details and making no mistakes. This was how universes were won.

He almost wished that he could smile at his skill and expert maneuvering, but his thin pale lips only pressed together unhappily. He didn't do any of this because it pleased him. He did it only because he had tired of the incessant noise of humans.

Another person would be proud. Because of him, GSA soldiers fought alongside demons – they both agreed that the preservation of the universe was more important than their immediate desires: Nightmare admitted that he could have no empire if there was no empire to rule over. Zero had united two forces with such a deep-rooted hatred. But Zero did not know pride, or pleasure.

He simply… thought it would be nice, _if we all could just cease existing._


	9. Chapter 9

"I knew I'd find you in here again."

Meta Knight smirked beneath his mask. "Your ship is depressingly sparse. Where else would I desire to go?"

Magolor shrugged good-naturedly. "The kitchen."

"Soldier's diet."

"Yeah, yeah." Magolor took his place beside Meta Knight and together both of them gazed down at the red amulet inscribed with runes. "Why do you come here so often?"

"As I said, it is the only object of interest aboard the Starcutter. Furthermore it intrigues me. It is not often that I can sense magic, least of all so potently."

"Well, we already know the runes are unreadable, so that's that!"

"Hm."

"Come on, MK. I bet I have some rahis boards or something. Best board game ever, and Halcandran through and through. I'll teach you."

"What would it take," Meta Knight said solemnly, "for you to divulge some of your secrets to me?"

Magolor stiffened. "What?"

"Magolor, you slink around the subject so often that I would think you are nearly begging me to demand the truth. You lie so terribly that I would think you wish to be caught."

"Maybe… maybe I do wish that." He seemed infinitely embarrassed at the confession, and hurried to amend it, "You're a pretty cool guy, MK. And honestly you keep so many secrets yourself, I can't see why you'd have trouble with mine!" Magolor's voice cracked; he glanced away nervously.

"Then tell it. I will listen."

Magolor let out a deep breath. "You won't judge me for it?"

"I have experience enough with your behavior; I think you are not culpable for anything you need to relate."

"Please understand, I can't just give away all the details," pleaded Magolor, "But I know I really gotta talk about it. Otherwise I'll just keep feeling worse about this!"

"Anything that would relieve your conscious, Magolor." Anything that would get him to stop lurking around the Lor Starcutter like a guilt-burdened criminal.

The Halcandran slumped against the display case and let out a tense exhale. "Okay. I-I don't have any prepared in a good speech or anything. Not too good at the whole oration thing."

"This is about the friend you are searching for?" prompted Meta Knight.

"Yes, him. When you talked about your companions in the war, I had to think of him, because… you guys all had your brotherhood going on, and Marx and I kinda had that too. Relying on each other and all that. He's basically my only…" he trailed off.

Silence.

Magolor blinked and turned to find Meta Knight's eyes illuminated in an unholy blood red; his cape flared out into wings. Up close they looked even more demonic.

"Gyah!" Magolor skittered back. "Holy Nova, MK, are you okay?"

The glass case cracked under Meta Knight's clenching fists. "Your friend," he hissed from behind clenched teeth. "His name is Marx?"

Magolor's face paled. "Y-you've heard of him before?"

"I had the misfortune of meeting him." To put it lightly.

"Ah, um…" Magolor sidled further out of Meta Knight's reach. "I hadn't exactly anticipated that. Um."

Meta Knight's hand dropped from the glass and circled the handle of Galaxia.

"Whoawhoawhoa," Magolor's own gloved hands flew up to guard his face, "MK, I can explain! He's – I'm – he dragged me into it!"

"Into what, exactly?" seethed Meta Knight, drawing out Galaxia in a fierce cackle of electricity. The golden sword illuminated Magolor's terrified eyes. With a yelp, he jumped away.

"I get that you're pissed; I do. I get if you're out for blood, I really do. But before you think I've done anything wrong, please let me explain!"

"Trust me," Meta Knight growled, "I will not kill you until I know everything you know about Marx."

"Okayokayokay – just – just put down the sword, will you? Point it somewhere else? I'm not responsible for anything he's done!"

"No, but if you have any ties with him you have your own sins, undoubtedly."

"Nothing unusual," Magolor attested. "Please. I can tell you everything."

Meta Knight stayed his hand, and Magolor accepted this as incentive to continue.

"You probably got him on his bad side," Magolor said, "judging by your reaction. But he's not all bad, I promise. I know he's strange, but he was never… Let me start over. When we knew each other really well, he was extremely idealistic. He read a lot, and found things in books other people wouldn't read. Like… Like Nova, actually."

"The Comet Nova?" echoed Meta Knight, having heard the name only in legends before.

Magolor nodded. "One in the same. He started talking about 'fixing' the world, and… I'll admit, it sounded crazy at first, but he started getting me hooked too. You don't understand, he can be extremely convincing. With everything torn up by the war, I thought that anything had to be better."

"The war," spat Meta Knight, "the war has never made it to your realm. Why would you care of the politics of our war?"

"I didn't care about mine!"

"That is not a good enough excuse."

"I spend a lot of time in this galaxy. I've seen what the war does to people. Anyway, Marx has this weird effect around him, I swear. When he gets passionate about something, you just can't help catching it."

"He had some conception that he could, in your words, 'fix' the world?"

"Right off the bat it was probably a bad idea, but he made it sound so convincing."

"You listened to him?"

"Hey! I didn't know it was gonna end badly! I thought – I mean, he sounded-"

"I am not judging you," Meta Knight said, "I only am verifying your story."

"Oh. We collected all the star power from the necessary planets – I-I know they sort of need it for protection, but if our plan would have worked, then they wouldn't need protection!"

"Go on…"

"Well, it didn't work. We summoned Nova, but…" here Magolor went quiet. His eyes reflected some unseen tragedy, and his next words were low, "Nova... wasn't what we expected. Everything went wrong. Please, it's not his fault, he's-"

"And now?" prompted Meta Knight. "Now do you know where he is?"

"Marx? No… no, I don't know."

"Or what he is planning?"

By careful increments, Magolor's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?" he said slowly.

"If he has gotten in his head another idea, perhaps," urged Meta Knight. "Might you know what it is? Is this why you are searching for him?"

"Well…" Magolor sucked in a deep breath. "Yes."

 

The world lurched; someone shouted out, and suddenly the chair sent them both spilling to the floor in a tangle of limbs.

"Ow ow…" Kirby flailed.

"Get off of me!" Marx snarled. He elbowed Kirby hard in the ribs and shoved the teen off with all the hostility he could muster.

In another moment, he'd leapt to his feet, his face twisted from hatred to pure awe. "Magolor! Oh Holy Nova and the merciful stars, Magolor!"

"Ow! Whu-what-"

"I can't believe it!"

"Whaddayamea-" Kirby pulled himself up beside Marx to find himself staring at a pair of curious yellow eyes, buried beneath a white and blue scarf and hood, and framed altogether by the Halberd's computer screen.

Marx was veritably squirming as he yearned towards this virtual figure with unrestrained glee.

"Wait…" Kirby said slowly, "this is the person you were talking about?"

"Yes yes yes this is him! You finally caught up to me," Marx crooned to the screen, "Oh Mags, I know I skivved out on you for a while there, but I swear, I've been looking for you-"

"Uh, yeah about that," said the yellow-eyed Halcandran. Kirby noticed what the jester failed to: Magolor fell far short in terms of enthusiasm.

Marx continued undisturbed, "I got all these books, you have no idea, but Halcandra isn't anywhere! Where the - oh wait… you haven't heard yet. You don't know!"

"Marx?" Magolor iterated. "Now isn't really the time. We need to ta-"

"Look what I have!" Marx grabbed Kirby's shoulders roughly and shoved him in front of the screen. "Tell me I'm not good. Tell me I haven't-"

"Stop!" Magolor finally yelled, clenched his gloved hands into fists. "You listen to me for once!"

"Eh?" Marx peered around Kirby's shoulder.

Magolor winced. "Sorry. I just… this is serious."

"Nonono." Marx pushed Kirby aside. "This is me, being serious. I'm serious."

And to Kirby's utter shock, Marx was clearly making a sincere effort to be so: his eyes were round and attentive, like a puppy awaiting a command.

 _He doesn't act that way with me._ Frowning, Kirby sidled against Marx's side and crossed his arms. Magolor, for his part, settled his curious yellow eyes on him for only a moment before turning his attention wholly to Marx. In that single moment, though, Kirby felt himself inspected and judged, and he could have sworn something like awe flickered in the Halcandran's strange gaze. If there had ever been anything there, though, it quickly vanished as Magolor turned his attention to Marx;

"I'm really, really glad to see you too," Magolor was saying, "In fact, things are going better than ever. I'm ready to meet you again."

Marx's lips peeled back into an evil expression. "Did you get the Lor?" he purred.

"Actually, I'm uh, I'm on her right now!" Magolor gestured vaguely and his eyes crinkled into a smile, but even Kirby, having never met Magolor, could tell there was something not quite genuine about that smile. Perhaps Marx had given him a penchant for detecting lies.

The jester only looked even more wickedly delighted. "Well, well, Magolor, I happened to get a ship myself. I-" His grin faltered. "Wait a minute. How did you contact us?"

"The Lor," Magolor explained. "It's very intelligent. I tried to search for your location and pop! this screen just came right up!"

"Delicious. Useful. Clever…"

"That's right. It unfortunately doesn't have any kind of tracking device. Where are you currently?"

Kirby yanked hard on Marx's sleeve; the jester glared. "Be quiet, Kirby. This is more important than you."

Those words could tear nerves. But Kirby leaned close and whispered into his ear, "you trust him?"

"With my life," he hissed back. "More than I can say for you."

Kirby gritted his teeth, "I just saved your life a few days ago!"

"I did most of the work."

"He sounds like he's lying!" Kirby whispered heatedly. "How do you guys even know each other?"

"He's my friend," Marx said firmly, as if that answered everything.

In a way… Kirby could kind of see how it did. Marx couldn't exactly have many friends; what few he had he must to some blind extent, trust. The thought was uncomfortable. Because what did that make Kirby?

"Hey guys?" Magolor waggled his fingers. "I'm still here!"

"Yes, yes! Marx and his pet have just left the thriving desert planet of Nashira. Your Lor must be able to find that."

Magolor nodded, "Lor's got it covered. Can you stick close to Nashira?"

"Ah…" Marx's eyes darted to the waning fuel gauge.

"No," Kirby uttered to him, "we don't have enough fuel to just stay in space, Marx. C'mon, please, we need to make it to this next planet."

"Yes. Marx can wait. Where are you?"

"Popstar, near Dreamland. I stopped by there for repairs on the Lor; it's a long story. But hey, now that I know for sure where you are, I can head right your way!"

"Dreamland?" echoed Kirby.

"Shut up," spat Marx.

"That's sixth months away!" Kirby said loudly. "We're going to have to wai-?"

"Shut up!" Marx clapped his hand against Kirby's mouth, "Don't you think I know what I'm doing? The Lor Starcutter can go through wormholes, Kirby. That means he can travel a lot faster than this hunk of metal!"

"You'll still have time to kill," Magolor cautioned. "I can't go through wormholes too close to planets; not without risking the ship."

Kirby tore away from Marx's grip and demanded, "how long? We're almost out o-"

Crack, Marx backhanded Kirby hard across his face. He lurched the side and barely caught himself on the Halberd's control board before clutching his cheek in horror. "Y-you-?"

"I told you to be silent," Marx remarked, stepping forward aggressively.

Magolor cut in lowly, "That's enough, Maruku."

He glanced back to the screen with a very ugly expression. "He was being annoying!"

"Enough."

Marx sighed. "Fine. Ignore the Kirby, please. We'll wait."

"It'll be two weeks," Magolor said, "give or take. You'll be near Nashira?"

"We'll be right by it." Marx's lips curled up into a sardonic smile, his fingers clenched over the Halberd's control board. "So you have the Lor, Magolor..."

"Yes. But we can't talk any more right now; I need to go."

"Don't be so reserved! That's always your problem, Magolor. You always wait to the end to get happy, but you need to celebrate the small steps. I've got Kirby, you've got the Lor, few more steps and-"

"Yes," Magolor said loudly. "I need to go, Marx."

"But Mag-" The screen went black; Marx was left staring with eyes as round and sad as Kirby had ever seen them; yet again, his heart wrenched with unwanted spite. Who was Magolor to make Marx act like this? Who was he to make Marx so irate with him, where in the days preceding this one, he'd been… not exactly kind, no, but at least a little gentler.

"You hit me," Kirby said.

Gone was the facsimile innocence. Marx rounded on Kirby with his teeth bared. "If it weren't for you, I could have talked to Magolor longer."

"Marx, I think he was lying to you-"

Another step forward, and fear replaced any sense of bravery. Marx needed to know that Magolor had been lying – at least, as far as Kirby could tell, and if he gave Kirby a bad feeling, then something had to be wrong. But Marx wasn't going to listen; he could see that in the brutal murderousness of his eyes. And… and in an fairness, Magolor had stopped him. Which he was not here to do now.

"Magolor," Marx bit out, "does not lie to me. And if you had just kept quiet, I could have talked longer to the only friend I have. Do you know how long it's been since I last talked to him?"

"N-no." _Because you never tell me anything I know nothing about you two I have no idea what's going on._

"Years," Marx snarled, "It's been fucking years."

"Well it's been a year since I've talked to my friends! You don't ever seem to care about that!"

"You have no friends; I killed the only friend you ever had, Kirby, and now you have nothing."

"I thought you actually cared!" he screamed, clenching his fists. "Don't you even remember? When we left Dreamland, you said this was all for me!"

"Well how selfish of you," sneered Marx. "Maybe nothing has ever been about you because you're worthless."

"You promised you'd help me!"

"I lie," he smiled twistedly.

"I hate you!" Kirby yelled, and for the first time in his life he truly wanted to hurt someone. He wanted to kick and scream and strike; he was so furious he couldn't even be afraid. His nails dug hard into his palms and he could swear they were drawing blood but he couldn't be bothered to stop. His whole body trembled with a need to lash out; he ground his teeth together and silently begged Marx to come closer to give him an excuse to hurt him.

But Marx just stood there, arms crossed, a smug smirk playing at his lips. As the seconds crawled by, the hatred waned and left something broken.

Kirby sagged where he stood; at last, his fists loosened.

This was the second time. The second time in barely a week that he'd felt such an overpowering hatred. This kind of anger, this kind of hate – it wasn't him. It was so unlike him that losing control to it made him horror-stricken.

"Done?" Marx said slyly. "Or would you like to throw another fit?"

"I'm done," Kirby echoed.

"Good." Stepping nearer, Marx looped his arms around Kirby shoulders. "I suppose I can forgive you for interrupting me during my conversation. Your response afterward was amusing enough for me to forgive you, at least. And soon enough we'll get to see Magolor in person. I think you'll like him."

"I don't like him very much yet," Kirby said dully. His cheek stung; he wondered vaguely if it was bruising.

"He should grow on you, Kay. He's soft like you are. Nice and all that."

"He doesn't seem like me."

"You'll like him."

Tears were pricking at the corners of his eyes, but Kirby didn't know why. He didn't feel much of anything at the moment, why was he trying not to cry?

"What about the fuel?" Kirby said softly. That was logical, wasn't it? Not that he felt afraid now.

Marx waved his hand dismissively. "It's only two weeks, Kay. Honest, that planet we were heading to was way more than that, maybe a month, maybe two. The Halberd can make it easy."

At that moment, the lights overhead sputtered and went black; the engine's hum grated down into a screeching rasp and the ship wobbled unsteadily. Forgetting everything, Marx seized Kirby, his eyes evincing everything but confidence.

"Shitshitshitshit-"

"You said we had enough!"

"Shitshitshit-"

The lights shocked back into life; the rasp returned to a hum, the Halberd steadied.

They stood frozen for a moment, equally wide-eyed, equally certain that the engine could fail at any time. When, in the span of several long seconds, the Halberd remained steady, Marx's arrogance returned.

He pushed Kirby away and said, "See? We're… we're fine. Totally fine. One hundred percent nothing's going to go wrong."


	10. Chapter 10

The Halberd was falling.

It would be nice to say that they were close to a planet and maybe the landing would be slightly less catastrophic but in all honesty when a hundred ton battleship decided to sputter out of life and plummet from space, there weren't exactly a lot of survival options.

"You said we were going to make it two weeks!" Kirby screamed.

"Two weeks, two days," Marx yelped, "close enough, right?"

"No that is not close enough!"

"Shitshitshit-"

The whole ship rattled and screeched as a metal creature in the throes of its brutal death. Still within Nashira's orbit, albeit distantly, they were steadily and undeniably picking up speed: the process had started ominously slow and was now building to a terrifying climax.

The entire ship was seized with tremors from the pressure; Kirby and Marx had to hold fast to the control board, and even that teetered precariously and bucked out of their grip.

"Marx!" Kirby suddenly gasped, his heart surging in hope, "you can teleport us out!"

"Because that went so well the first time!"

"We survived!"

"No," Marx snarled, but his glare was full of too much fear to make him look fierce. "twice in not even a month, plus accounting for the speed of the ship and the distance between us and land…"

"H-how far up do you think we are?" With the engines failed, there was no rearview screen that could show them behind the ship: they saw only space that was rapidly spitting them back out, and soon enough, licks of hot fire coiling around the windshield.

"Fuck fuck fuck!" The ship began to flip itself slowly over, the nose of the ship going up over its rear. Simultaneously Kirby and Marx's feet left the floor; panicking, one hand slipped from the control board and Kirby grabbed Marx's shirt.

"Awesome!" Marx screeched, "awesome, we're gonna die, I'm gonna die like this," hoarse chuckles issued from his lips, "hehh, we're gonna die Kirby! We're gonna die! This is it, death, poof, we're gonna-"

"Shut up and get us out of here!"

Then they knew it was impact. The control board shot out from their touch. White death-light filled the room. The windshield shattered and glass splinters lacerated flesh. The room was no longer large but instead crumbled up like paper, small, so small – Kirby's head crashed wetly against the ceiling; he hallucinated someone grabbing his arm and then everything went dark.

 

"I did everything you said," Magolor said in a half-grumble, half-whine. "What more can you want?"

Marx's head on a stake for starters, but Meta Knight wasn't about to admit that. "Two weeks?" he echoed, "it will take two weeks to reach them? You told me earlier your ship could make any trip in mere days."

Magolor threw up his hand defensively. "Okay, okay, but that's when you were about to go all axe-murderer on me. You didn't even know where Kirby was! How was I supposed to know how long it'd really take?"

"Fine," Meta Knight spat, whirling away from the Lor's screen and pacing the deck.

This was tricky. Marx hadn't suspected a thing, as far as Meta Knight could tell – the jester had devoured Magolor's words like a starving animal. That had gone perfectly. But Meta Knight was beginning to realize just how difficult it might be to find Kirby as cooperative.

Hiding just out of the view of the screen, Meta Knight had heard Kirby's words; his trying to protect Marx, his trying to warn him… like he didn't want Marx to get harmed or betrayed.

Even if they did manage to subdue Marx and overtake the Halberd… would Kirby still be on the same side?

"You're worried about Kirby?" Magolor said softly.

Meta Knight scoffed in reply and didn't deign to speak. His wings ached to be released from the confines of his cape.

"You know I'm gonna convince Marx to let him go…" Magolor tried again.

That was hardly Meta Knight's fear, but to indulge Magolor, he asked, "and what will you do with him afterwards?"

Magolor shrugged noncommittally. "I don't know. Take him to Halcandra maybe? The guy really needs to get away from this galaxy for a while. I promise he'll let go of Kirby, though, and then we'll be out of your hair. Poof, gone, you won't need to worry about us again, MK, I promise."

Growling, Meta Knight gave up his self-restraint and let his wings flare out. They stretched in stress and folded again neatly to his back as he spun on his heel again.

"You're, uh, you're not still planning on killing him, are you?"

Definitely. "Of course not."

"Because I mean, he's not a bad guy, I promise… I get that he took Kirby, but he's only got the best interests of the people-"

"He killed several of 'the people' in Dreamland," Meta Knight retorted shortly, "Stars, I saw his house after he left… I am not so sure of his innocence."

"Oh." Magolor rubbed his hands together.

"He trusts you, though," muttered Meta Knight.

"Huh?"

"Marx. He trusts you, truly."

Magolor winced. "I did say we were friends…"

Meta Knight paused and gave Magolor a searching look. "Indeed. Yet you don't hesitate to bring him to me."

"I-I'm not bringing him to you. We're gonna have a peaceful parlay thing. We'll find a nice planet to land, and you take Kirby, and I take Marx. Badaboom, we go our separate ways and never see each other again."

"Yes." Meta Knight's wings relaxed back into a cape and he tugged the corners around his body. "Magolor… I truly appreciate your assistance in this matter. But are you certain you can convince Marx?"

Magolor jabbed his thumbs to his chest, "trust me, Meta Knight, I am the expert in this field."

"While in Dreamland, Marx seemed unnaturally attached…"

Magolor made a pained expression, "ah, yes. He does that. Kirby isn't the first. But I can get them apart, I promise."

"I see."

 

They made the trip in a week and a half.

After getting past Nashira's security, they circled the planet in idle search of the Halberd.

"You said it was a big ship, right?" Magolor said. "I mean, it can't really be that difficult to find, right?"

"They did say not say they were on Nashira itself; only near to it," Meta Knight reminded him. "Perhaps we should contact the Halberd again."

Instantly, the Lor, which had been getting oddly perceptive to the desires of its pilots lately, pulled up the screen of the Halberd's deck – or at least, it tried. The screen showed only blackness.

"I guess we'll just have to keep flying," Magolor shrugged. "They must've landed somewhere and turned off the ship."

"Wait." Meta Knight stepped closer to the windshield, squinting. "What is that? On the horizon?" Some darker marbling against the sand, a splotch of something else amidst empty dunes.

"Hm…" Magolor guided the Lor nearer, and the splotch gradually took shape.

A cold shiver of death crawled along Meta Knight's spine. His heart seized in unnatural palpitations. There was the Halberd, but not neatly grounded upon Nashira. It lay upon its side, one massive skeleton, with scrapped pieces scattered around its broken body and glass vomiting from its mouth. One magnificent wing was crumpled beneath its weight; another was shredded up and flagging weakly in the wind.

"Oh no…" Magolor murmured at his side.

"Land," ordered Meta Knight.

The Lor descended slowly, seeking to find one nearby patch of desert that wasn't devastated by the fallen ship.

Before its belly had touched sand, Meta Knight burst from the side, airborne upon his wings. He soared over the wreckage, fruitlessly scanning for any sign of life. The Halberd's hull had entirely split open, and out of these slits heaved furniture, wires, broken wood and metal slivers, lights torn out, blankets. Everything domestic thrown up and ripped apart. Everything lovingly, painstakingly built by Meta Knight.

And worse, so much worse, no indication yet of survival.

Meta Knight circled lower and descended into a ruptured hallway. From there he entered the bowels of the ship, following along the overturned walls. Further in, the hallways were intact, despite being lopsided. If only Kirby could be found somewhere amongst the wreckage…

After several turns and back-tracking, without a single sign of Kirby, Meta Knight began to wonder if Kirby had survived and simply left the Halberd behind. There was no telling how soon after that call two weeks ago that they had crashed; surely if he'd survived, he wouldn't have stayed aboard the ship?

But still, much of the ship was yet to be explored. Meta Knight, unsure if he was to find nothing, or a corpse.

Then a wraith stepped from the shadows. This wraith had sunken blue eyes, long mangy blonde hair, and pale skin hidden by a baggy red shirt and jeans. He squinted.

"Meta… Knight?"

A hook dug itself into his heart. _He's alive. Alive but look at him this is hardly alive._

"Kirby," he uttered.

Slowly, "are you… are you real?"

"Yes, yes I'm real." For the first time in his life, Meta Knight felt the impulse to take someone in his arms, but he resisted, refused.

"How did you get here?"

"The Lor Starcutter."

A blank.

"Magolor's ship," supplied Meta Knight. "I was there, Kirby, when Marx spoke with Magolor. I had boarded the Lor in order to reach you."

"Magolor?" Kirby's eyes widened, "You're with Magolor?"

"He only provided me transport here, Kirby. Now where is Marx?"

Kirby's face closed off to all emotion. "No."

"No?"

"I'm not going back with you to Dreamland. You shouldn't have come."

"Dreamland is not our destination," Meta Knight asserted. "It is far too late for that."

"O-oh."

"Where is Marx?"

Kirby displayed a very sour expression, his eyes narrowing and his chin tilting up. "You want to kill him. You tried to when we left Dreamland. I'm not telling you where he is."

And this, this was what Meta Knight had feared. They could do everything in the world to reach him and tear Marx from him and to pave the path to his return… but they couldn't make him walk that path if he didn't want to.

"Kirby," Meta Knight said lowly, "See reason. Marx is a murderer and a liar. He cares nothing for you; he intends only to use you. He is not worth protecting."

"Really?" Kirby said, taking a step back. "Who gets to decide who is worth protecting or not? Doesn't that make you a murderer too?"

"Marx kills innocent people. I am a soldier; I kill only those who are our enemies. I kill those who are evil."

"Marx isn't evil," Kirby growled, "you haven't been around him the past year, Meta Knight. You've never been around enough at all. How would you know what he's like?"

Meta Knight retorted, "he struck you, Kirby. In the five minutes I have seen of him lately, he was verbally cruel to you and physically assaulted you. I know what he is like."

Kirby's determination faltered. Meta Knight could see the very cracks in his resolution; he could see the fear and uncertainty seeping through.

"You see? Marx is evil. He does no right by you."

Kirby backed away; up went the concrete walls. "Marx was getting better. He was getting gentler, and he hadn't hurt me in a long time. And then you had to call with Magolor. _You're_ the one who made him turn against me, and now it's gonna take days or weeks or months to get him back the way he was!" Kirby's strength broke; he spoke through tears and he sagged against the wall wearily.

There was no hope for it – Kirby would still protect Marx, after everything. _How do you even begin to fix this?_ He would have to search for Marx alone… but he couldn't exactly just take Kirby back to the Lor, not when he didn't want to budge.

"I found Marx," came Magolor's voice, and for once it was neither quavering nor tentative, but instead bold, confident, and proud. "But I'm gonna have to second Kirby's idea, MK. You won't be killing him."

Magolor stepped out from the very shadows from which Kirby had emerged. Trailing in his wake was a very exhausted-looking Marx, with matching long hair and bags beneath his purple eyes. Those eyes hungrily followed Meta Knight.

"You will not stop me," the knight asserted. "I understand your sentiments, Magolor, but letting Marx live is akin to intentionally setting fire to the world."

Magolor chuckled.

"How is this funny?" Meta Knight said lowly, but already he was beginning to understand, and Magolor's next words confirmed his horrible suspicion;

"Oh poor Meta Knight… You really didn't suspect all along, did you? You thought I was so weak. That I was scared of you! Don't make me laugh."

Meta Knight remained frozen in place. The odds had just turned drastically against him. Marx and Magolor both out for his blood, evidently, and Kirby, who was more apt to fight with them than against them.

Magolor continued, "I can't believe you didn't catch it sooner. Why would I betray my best friend?"

"Because what he does is wrong. Magolor, you can choose differently. You do not-"

Magolor crossed his arms. "Oh, stop. You're flattering me, really. You are an idiot if you think Marx corrupted me. No, no; we met and found out just how good friends we could be through the kind of people we are."

He chose silence this time. In his mind, he assessed Magolor and Marx both, determining their skill, deciding if they could be taken. If his strength surpassed both of theirs; furthermore, if it surpassed Kirby's. But the latter, he expected, he had little to worry about it when it came to an actual fight.

His hand crept to Galaxia.

"Don't fight," uttered Kirby.

"Stay quiet," Marx bid him. With deliberate steps, he approached Meta Knight, like a predator circling prey.

Magolor hung back, smirking. "You underestimated us, Meta Knight. You underestimated me."

"Don't hurt him," Kirby squeaked.

Marx snarled, "shut up. This doesn't concern you."

"Don't go after Kirby," Magolor broke in, "Meta Knight is the target, not Kirby. He hasn't done anything wrong."

Marx nodded and set his eyes back on Meta Knight. Needy strain in his voice, "I wanna kill him. I really wanna kill him."

"I know," Magolor answered. "You'll get your chance, Maruku."

"No! No one is killing _anyone_!"

Magolor stepped beside Kirby and grabbed his arm, "Please understand, we can't let him go, Kirby. He'd try to come after us again, and knowing him, he'd manage to catch up too, even if we left him stranded here."

"Magolor," whined Marx, his eyes ever fixed upon Meta Knight with hunger.

"Wait just a little longer," Magolor said, "Kirby, you can't think of any other solution, can you?"

"Anything else! If you can't leave him, then – then take him with us or something! Meta Knight was my mentor for most of my life; however I feel about him, I still don't want him dead!"

Marx cast a furious look back at Kirby. "Shut up! Can't you s-" Electric gold light swiped mere centimeters from his eyes; naught but a warning, as Meta Knight would not strike a distracted opponent. But with that single threat, any restraint was destroyed.

With raw hatred boiling in his veins, Marx dove at his red-eyed opponent.

It was a storm of color and sound; motions heart-stoppingly quick, the flare of wings, navy blue blending and dancing around reds and purples, all interspersed by the golden lacerations of Galaxia.

Magolor dragged Kirby back from the battle; helpless, he watched as they dodged and weaved about each other, always just a sliver from death, always just barely clinging to life.

Meta Knight made it an art; Marx made it chaos. One moved like lightening; each strike deliberate and fast as an eye-blink, wreathed in golden aura; his grace and readiness god-like, flawless, calculated. Meta Knight fought like the elements, at once fluid and beautiful, at once sharp and lethal.

The other darted and ducked and danced; each move a mere reflex, dodging the gold streaks and leaping in and out erratically. There was no overlying pattern or meaning; the only consistency was unpredictability.

Watching, Kirby could not see a single injury made. The two fought with such different styles that in their respective ways they were evenly matched in battle.

Then, with a choked cry and the splatter of blood, the balance shifted.

The wild frenzy paused and out of it emerged a staggering Marx, backing up and clutching a hand dyed red.

Meta Knight hitched back his spiked sword and send it violently slashing forward; Marx failed to leap out of the way quite in time.

His shirt split to reveal an enormous gash scrawled from his collarbone to his right hip; he fell to his knees.

Kirby stepped forward; Magolor held him in place.

"Do you surrender?" Meta Knight asked, Galaxia at his throat.

For a moment it was dead silent. Only Marx's breathing could be heard, ragged and hoarse. His head was tilted forward, his hat disguising his pained expression. Then, slowly, he tilted his chin up. Blood-stained teeth leered at Meta Knight.

"Never," he uttered.

Galaxia thrust forward; Marx's hand shot up and shoved the sword away. Ignoring the new cut in his palm, he seized Meta Knight's arm and sank his fangs into the soft flesh of his wrist.

Magolor's breath quickened in excitement; Kirby felt as though he'd never breathe again.

Hissing beneath his mask, Meta Knight tried to arc Galaxia up, but with Marx's teeth embedded in the muscles of his wrist, he could do nothing.

Marx's hungry eyes curved up to Meta Knight's throat; an instant before he lunged, Kirby knew exactly what he intended to do. Then, he tore his fangs from his wrist and aimed directly for the jugular.

"Stop!" Kirby twisted away from Magolor and bolted.

Before he could ever even reach the two, an invisible force rent them apart, like a barrier exploding outward. Marx was thrown to the floor and skidded back; Meta Knight leapt several feet away and landed on his feet, Galaxia held carefully at the ready, his eyes shimmering green.

Gasping and scared, but so very certain, Kirby stood between them, his hands apart. "D-don't... No more."

Marx sat up and gazed upon Kirby with horror. "You-"

Magolor rounded on Marx, "You've been training him?!"

"No! No, I never taught him that!"

"Kirby," Meta Knight said, "he must b-"

Shuddering, Kirby covered his ears. "Stop! I'm so tired of everyone telling me what to do! Kirby this, Kirby that; well, I'm sick of it! Why should I listen to any of you?" He threw down his hands and glared. "No one is dying today, okay? That's what _I_ decide."

"He's figuring out his powers on his own," marveled Magolor.

Kirby closed his eyes and whimpered. "I don't know about powers, or what I'm supposed to be. Not one of you has cared to tell me. But I know that if I have the strength to prevent it, I'm not letting anyone get hurt."

"Okay." Magolor raised his hands up, "just breathe, Kirby. You look like you're about to pass out."

"Promise," Kirby ground out. "Every one of you, promise that you won't try to kill each other! There has to be another solution. I know there can be another solution."

"I promise," Magolor said readily. "You're right; we can talk this out somehow. Anyway, if we don't get these two medical treatment soon, I'm pretty sure they're both gonna drop."

Meta Knight nodded grimly. His wings fluttered down into a cape once more, and he sheathed Galaxia in a crackle of electricity. "Kirby, I will respect your wishes. It was selfish and reckless of me to allow myself to be consumed by hatred. Please, forgive me."

Kirby turned to Marx. The jester had gotten back to his feet. Despite his injuries, the murderousness had never left his body; it showed itself in the tension of his spine, in his carelessness of his wounded state, in the glint of his narrow eyes.

"Please?" Kirby said.

They shared a long look; Kirby could see his mind deliberating behind his eyes. The struggle of _I want to, you shouldn't, I want to, you shouldn't_

"He's always going to try to bring you back," Marx whispered, his expression twisting to one befitting his injuries, like he was finally feeling pain.

"I'm not going anywhere," Kirby insisted, "I've been here with you this whole time, Marx. He's not bringing me back to Dreamland."

Doubt. Hesitation. "I shouldn't listen to you," Marx hissed. "I don't listen to people."

"Please…. I'm not ordering you. It's not a demand. Out of care for me, Marx… please."

The tension eased in Marx's spine. He rolled his eyes. "So dramatic, Kirby. You act like I can't control myself or something, hehe."

"So you'll…?"

"Yeah yeah, but don't expect me to be happy about it." Marx stalked over to Meta Knight – Kirby tensed, but he waved aside his concerns scowling. "Relax, Kay. To truce?" He out his hand and avoided Meta Knight's eyes.

Meta Knight stared at it stiffly. "I still do not support anything you do, Marx."

"Don't worry," Marx said, smiling, "I still really want to kill you too. Can't you shake for Kirby's sake?"

The knight glanced over at Kirby; he nodded encouragingly.

Sighing, Meta Knight extended a gloved hand, "to truce, then. For now."

"For now indeed," grinned Marx. Meta Knight saw it in his eyes, saw it before Magolor or Kirby realized it, but even then it was too late.

Marx surged forward. His jaw clenched around Meta Knight's throat in a sound wet and cracking, a sound that scraped nerves and sent horror, icy-cold and penetrating, into Kirby's bones.

Under his mask, Meta Knight's eyes turned pure white. His hand struggled towards the sheathed Galaxia, but the jester imprisoned him in a perverse embrace, a mockery of a lover; and with his life spilling onto Marx's tongue, Meta Knight had not even half his usual strength.

One moment Kirby was a helpless watcher, trapped by his own horror and disbelief. The next moment, he was pushing Marx off and he thought he was screaming, but everything had just faded out to white noise. He was certain there was blood soaking his hands, but he couldn't notice, and when he finally wormed the two apart, he glimpsed the flesh and blood still riddled in Marx's grinning teeth and he nearly laughed because

_This can't be happening._

_There is no way this is actually happening._

He turned dizzily to Magolor, "we should – first aid – in one of the rooms-"

Magolor's eyes were round. "Um. Kirby, I don't think that's gonna help."

He shuddered, "Go! Find it!"

"Uh, right!" Magolor skittered down the hall and Kirby turned back to Meta Knight, resting his hands on his shoulders and holding him steady and

_trying really hard not to look and how is he still on his feet_

_God there was so much blood_


	11. Chapter 11

"You have no idea how much this hurts, Magolor!" screeched Marx.

"Stop squirming."

"Ow ow ow ow."

"Just sit still! You're making it worse!"

"Ohstars everything's spinning – Maggy, you have three heads, hoolly Nova. Woozy. I am feeling _woozy._ "

"If you stopped talking so much you might actually be able to stay conscious."

"Conscious? I'm conscious. This is me, being conscious. I am so- ohwhoa."

Marx and Magolor were currently in the Halberd's first aid room; Magolor very patiently trying to tend to a very uncooperative Marx.

Meanwhile, Kirby sat on top of the locked door. The first aid room, like much of the Halberd itself, was entirely lopsided, and the door was now on the ceiling. Not having the stomach or desire to join them, Kirby simply hugged his knees to his chest and listened to their absurd conversation drifting from the cracks.

"Kirby is so much better at this than you," Marx was slurring, "that guy! Let me tell you. That guy knows how to fix people."

"Sit still," chided Magolor.

"Ohhwow. Is that my rib? I think it stopped hurting."

"No Marx, that's a bandage."

"Oh."

"Stop poking it; you're going to make it bleed again."

"Don't you worry about me, Mags. I'm doing great."

"Glad to hear it."

"Is that a needle?!"

"Marx, that's been a needle for the past hou-"

"Shoo! Get that needle away from me! I am fine. Healed! Look, I think I can get up already-"

"Oh no you don't!" A loud crash, a yelp, and a thump.

Magolor let out an exasperated sigh. "That idiot…"

The next minutes passed in relieving silence, with only the occasional clatter of tools or the tread of Magolor's footsteps as he gathered more materials from the floor or cupboards. Then running water, until it sputtered and died, prompting another sigh from Magolor.

An hour or so later, the scraping of a chair across the floor, and Magolor knocked lightly on the door. "Kirby? Are you still there?"

Kirby scooted off the door but said nothing.

The lock clicked and Magolor very ungracefully clambered out of the room and flopped to the floor like a grounded fish.

Kirby looked away silently.

"Sorry about all the blood," Magolor said, brushing off his cloak, "I mean, the water wasn't working, and I don't really have another outfit here."

No response.

Magolor continued, "he's gonna be okay, I think. He'll survive, at least. I don't know about anything more than that yet, though."

Still no response.

"Okayyyyy." Magolor said slowly. "Um." He rubbed his palms together idly. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"I'm fine," Kirby said.

"Okay, that's fine. Totally cool. I'm uh," he got to his feet hastily. "I'm gonna go to the Lor to get some things. Can you stay here?"

Kirby nodded mutely, and Magolor darted off, leaving him alone to his thoughts.

At first it had been all grief and panic and horror and desperate futile attempts to save Meta Knight, but it had been pretty obvious from the start that 'saving' was out of the question. But now everything just flatlined. All the spikes and waves of brain activity, of thought and emotion, sank into one straight, dull line, going on and on and on without ever changing.

He wasn't entirely sure the events of the last few hours had even occurred; on some level, he was certain they hadn't.

Everything now couldn't be anything more than a dream.

Drifting in a mirage of unreality, Kirby scooted back to the edge of the door and dropped in feet first. He landed crooked on the chair Magolor had placed beneath the door - it nearly sent him sprawling to the floor before he ungraciously leapt off and pin-wheeled his arms to gain back balance.

The floor was littered with supplies ranging from syringes, broken jars, cotton balls, and nylon sutures, to various medicine bottles (some ruptured and leaving discolored puddles), hooked needles, and gloves. Magolor had righted a metal table amongst this mess and on this lay Marx, spread eagled and unnaturally still. Huge swathes of white cloth bundled his torso, and covered both his hands.

Kirby clambered onto the metal table, tucking his knees carefully on either side of Marx. His eyes raked up from the clean bandages to the vulnerable pale curve of Marx's throat, to an expression so serene only in sleep.

Kirby did not plan anything - he did not know in advance what his actions were to be. He only responded. Swung wherever the weird dream took him.

His fingers tucked mindlessly beneath the cloth bandage and peeled it away from Marx's skin, just a little. He peered under and saw a jagged messy line of stitches sloping down from Marx's collarbone. Following the line, he came across a mark of white puckered skin, two or three inches long maybe, just beneath Marx's ribs.

Of course. That was where Meta Knight had stabbed him last year, before their flight in the Halberd. Shivering, Kirby moved past the old scar and instead placed his hand flat over the new stiches.

They were messy and slick beneath his palm, but he barely noticed.

Tentatively, slowly, frightened but driven, he increased the pressure on the torn flesh, until his nails were digging into the nylon and his teeth were clenched together with the effort. He was certain he was shivering but he couldn't remember being cold.

Suddenly Marx flinched beneath him. A helpless whimper departed from his throat.

Pinpricks of blood bubbled from the wound; Kirby dug his nails in harder.

"Ngh!" Marx weakly lifted a hand to protect himself, and Kirby's brows furrowed as he saw it up close. He abandoned his initial task and instead delicately grasped Marx's right wrist. Bringing that hand closer to his face; he noticed only then the eerie way it was wrapped, with the pointer finger entirely flattened down and…. No…

Kirby squinted. There was no pointer finger. The bandage was knotted directly over the knuckle. And the middle finger wasn't all there either, maybe only up to the first joint.

"Kirby?" someone shouted out; Kirby jumped and dropped Marx's hand.

Closer now, "oh there you are."

Kirby looked up and saw Magolor peering down through the doorway. "Uh… what are you doing down there?" the Halcandran inquired.

"Um…"

"He's bleeding again!"

"Whu-?" Kirby glanced down and saw that indeed, a spreading stain of red had appeared directly on the spot he'd pressed.

_I did that?_

"Kirby!" Magolor dropped down from the doorway and swooped over to the table, "Shoo! Get off him! What did you do?"

Kirby scrabbled off the table so rapidly that he nearly face planted onto the floor. "He's missing fingers," he said blankly as he darted out of Magolor's way.

The Halcandran, who had changed into an identical outfit as before, sans all the blood, pushed up his sleeves angrily and set to work again, retorting with, "yes, and he's gonna lose his life if you don't leave him alone! I'm not very good at this to begin with; it's like trying to button a shirt in the dark. With your feet! You don't want him dead, do you?"

"I'm not going to hurt him," Kirby muttered, "I don't want to hurt people."

"Okay, I mean, you just kinda reopened potentially fatal wounds, but okay."

Kirby burrowed deeper into himself.

"Sorry." Magolor scurried around until he found more sutures, and finding these, returned to Marx's side. "I understand that you're a little, um, conflicted now. But can you be conflicted somewhere else?"

"Right."

"Sorry. Y'know, I do think what you were trying to do was good, Kirby. The whole making peace between everyone thing. For what it's worth, I do wish Marx had listened."

"Thank you," Kirby said, "but I don't really want consolation from you right now. You're like Marx; you aren't what you pretend to be."

He turned away and climbed out of the room. Wandering the halls, he found himself eventually back outside, to the gaping hole in the Halberd. He ascended up the hull and sat atop the entire wreckage, where the hot desert sand bit into his cheeks and eyes and the sun burned the pale skin of his arms.

There was an ache that never left his insides, and his head tried to crowd itself with so many thoughts;

Replays in grotesque detail; grief that gnawed tirelessly _because it's all for you, Hero of Dreamland, it's all your fault;_ questions of his own identity, despair against his unknown fate, helpless gratitude towards Meta Knight – an appreciation too late in occurring, and hatred, so much hatred; eternal fear of himself and of Marx, for his safety and his vindictive nature; a paralyzing fear also of anyone else getting hurt; and even darker, deeper, a fear of them being hurt by himself, and grief of a depth he wished he had never known before.

His eyes fluttered shut; he may have fallen asleep sitting there, but wasn't sure; he only knew that suddenly someone was calling for him, and he imagined it was Meta Knight, and that it was back in Dreamland…

But that was ridiculous, because he hadn't been in Dreamland in a long time, and he could never go back there, not with Marx, and he had to stay with Marx because if he didn't, he'd only destroy more

_Even if I'm completely helpless to stop him_

But there was nothing left of Kirby's to destroy, nothing left but Dreamland and Fumu, and if Kirby expressed a desire to never return, maybe those things would be saved-

"Kirby! KIRBY!"

He opened eyes gritty with sand and tears. Magolor had joined him up on the hull. "' mhere," Kirby acknowledged.

"Stars," Magolor slumped. "I thought you were dead for a minute there – you know how much Marx would get after me for that?"

Kirby shrugged.

"Come on, get down. You're gonna get heat stroke or something."

"I'm okay."

"Yeah yeah. Don't make me carry you."

"Meta Knight trusted you. I could see that. And you betrayed him."

"Wow, um… you're a lot more confrontational than I expected."

Kirby narrowed his eyes. "Why did you let Marx hurt him? Why didn't you stop him? He listens to you."

"H-hey, easy… He might not listen to me as much as you think. If I say something he doesn't like then it's zilch, done; he does what he wants."

"You could have at least tried."

"I did, Kirby. I tried to keep him off as long as possible, I was hoping you'd find another-"

"Don't. I heard the way you were breathing the whole time. It… it fascinated you, or intrigued you, or…." Kirby turned his head away.

Magolor threw up his hands, "okay, I tried! I can't help it; Marx is… he's _artistic._ "

"Artistic?" snarled Kirby.

Magolor flinched. "I-I mean, if you put aside the situation, Marx's fighting is something to watch."

Kirby lurched to his feet. "You let Meta Knight die because it looked _artistic?_ "

"No – no, not that fair, I didn't mean for it-"

"It's okay to put a living being's life at risk because it's interesting to watch? It's worth making that gamble just because you want to admire some sick sort of _art_?"

"Ah, I may have misspoke; I didn't mean that was the so-"

"What is this all _for_? Everything Marx has done, everything; is it just pointless slaughter? Was it all for such a stupid reason? Is that why you betrayed Meta Knight?"

"Uh, Kirby, maybe you should calm down; I don't really know how to handle, um, you."

"Me?" Kirby growled, "why me? What did I even _do_ back there?"

"Well, um… I-I don't really know if-"

" _What am I_?" Kirby ground out.

"A-ah um, I'm, I mean, maybe you should wait for Marx-"

A seething hiss started low in his chest and surged into a scream. Magolor was backing up and tripping over his cloak, and Kirby absolutely roiled with hate, it was like a living thing pumping hot and evil through his blood; he hated the fact he was different; he hated the fear in Magolor's eyes; his anger and his grief; he hated Meta Knight for trying to protect him, and most of all he hated himself.

And then he felt it – somewhere deep deep inside, something _shifted;_ he'd felt it once before, right as he'd thrown Meta Knight and Marx back. It was something much more powerful than him, something with limitless strength, something dark and straining to be released. If he only desired to, he realized, he could shred to pieces the remains of this ship and everything in it.

Instantly his fury vanished. Terror replaced it, because whatever that was, it wasn't _him._

Bile rose in his throat. With nausea settling in his stomach, he saw the unadulterated fear in Magolor's eyes. "I'm sorry," he gasped.

"You're not gonna hurt me with your creepy demi-god power thingies?"

"I don't hurt people."

"Promise?" squeaked Magolor.

"I _don't_ ," Kirby insisted.

"Hey, better safe than sorry. You looked a little 'psycho axe-murderer' there."

Kirby shook his head violently. "I didn't mean to. I'm not actually scary. If you talked to anyone back home… they'd think it was stupid to even suggest it."

"Just making sure." Magolor slowly approached again. "During the fight; that was the first time you used it?"

Kirby nodded shakily. "I-I didn't even know I could do something like that."

"So Marx really didn't train you?"

"No. He… never told me."

Magolor nodded as if it had confirmed something positive for him. He smiled warmly at Kirby; despite the fact his scarf disguised his mouth, he managed to radiate a feeling of warmth and good-will. "Everything will make sense in the end," he said in what Kirby guessed was supposed to be a reassuring tone. He patted Kirby's shoulder and then stood, saying something about going to the Lor Starcutter again.

Kirby figured he was uncomfortable lingering in the Halberd for any longer than necessary, and much preferred the comfort of his own ship. Kirby could understand the feeling. He missed being ungrounded, safe in the warship's hull, drifting through deep space.

He missed that simplicity.

 

"You gotta help me," Magolor stressed, pacing back and forth in front of the metal surgical table, crushing under his feet glass bottles and syringes. "Like, you really really gotta help me. Your little 'pet?' He's freakin' terrifying! I'm just waiting for him to go on a mad rampage and kill me. I think he blames me more than you! I didn't even do anything! Well, I mean, there was the whole 'betraying your life mentor' thing, but I mean, that was sort of minor in comparison to watching _you_ grotesquely rip out his thr-"

"He loves me," Marx interrupted, keeping his eyes crushed shut. "I get amnesty."

"Oh, ha-ha. Seriously, Marx! Does he have a short circuit somewhere? An off button? A 'scary magic temporary removal' switch?"

"He doesn't hurt people." Marx very slowly tried to shift to his side – several hours on his back was doing nothing good for his spine. Pain wreathed up his entire stomach and chest; gasping out, he lay flat again. "Everything hurts!" he yelled, then groaned at the effort.

"Yeah, he keeps saying he doesn't hurt people," Magolor said hastily, "but he's a ticking bomb, buddy. I don't trust him an inch."

Marx sighed. "He's harmless."

"You need to deal with him for me," Magolor whined.

"Oh let me just get up and do that," Marx bit back, waving his hand dramatically above his face.

Magolor shook his head. "Alright alright. Don't you move at all; you'll open the stitches again."

"I have so much of a choice right now."

"About that…" Magolor slunk closer to the table. "What's wrong with you, Maruku?"

"Aside from a gaping wound across my entire torso, a few lost fingers, and a lot of lost blood, I think Marx is doing pretty lovely."

"No – I've seen you fight before. You don't usually mess up like that."

"Meh."

"Normally you're pretty hard to nick, ever."

"My spine is dying, Mags. Dyingggg."

"Were you already hurt before the fight?"

"I was hurt. So hurt. My feelings were hurt by your long absence."

"Was Meta Knight that good?"

"I hate you, Magolor."

"I hate you too. But yknow, you did kill Meta Knight, no matter how good he was."

"Yeah, yeah."

Magolor smiled. "It's nice to see you again."

Marx smirked. "I missed you too. Now can you get me a pillow or something?"

Rolling his eyes, Magolor left the first aid room to search for bedrooms. He wound through many darkened hallways and not for the first time wished he'd brought matches – but luckily, he was eventually able to find a few pillows, which he brought back to Marx.

All the while, he hadn't seen hind nor hair of the Kirby of the Stars, which in his mind was very suspicious. He hadn't even glimpsed him sitting atop the Halberd any longer.

Maybe Marx trusted him not to wander off – and trusted him not to go on a murderous rampage or anything – but Magolor wasn't sure he shared that same trust.

Frowning, he set to scouring the Halberd: which, by the way, was an astronomical task made even worse by the fact the entire ship lay in various-sized pieces.

Eventually he made his way back to where the fight had taken place, and that's where he found Kirby, kneeling beside the very still form of his old mentor in the darkened hallway.

Meta Knight lay as if in sleep, but for the bed of blood he slumbered in. A blanket had been placed with great care to cover up his body from chin down. Kirby himself knelt by his side.

One hand was delicately extended, the tips of his fingers grazing the dead knight's cold metal mask in solemn regard. The other hand was folded in his lap in quiet sigil; his expression was oddly open and sad in a way Magolor had not witnessed before.

Beside Kirby rested the unsheathed golden sword Magolor feared, with its leather casing laid nearby.

"I see you took that sword," Magolor said edgily.

"Galaxia."

"Galaxia?"

"It's the sword's name."

"Okay… just… keep it away from me, okay?"

Kirby nodded silently, not removing his eyes from the metal mask of his defeated mentor.

"Hey, you're gonna be okay, right? I guess you two were close?"

"Not as close as we should have been. I ignored him for the past year. I never even really said goodbye."

"It is pretty awful he's gone. I'm sorry, Kirby."

Kirby shook his head. "I should have done something."

"Ah." Magolor rocked back and wondered if conversations with Kirby always went this awkwardly. "I dunno; I'm not sure there was anything more you could do. You tried."

"I know what Marx is like. I should have known he wouldn't stop."

"About that…" Magolor said slowly. "He hasn't actually told me anything about… I mean. How long have you two even known each other? How'd you meet?"

Kirby turned his face away; he wasn't in the mood for an interrogation about his and Marx's history. He didn't want to think about any of it, least of all talk about it, particularly to someone like Magolor.

"How… close are you; you and Marx?" Magolor dared.

Kirby blinked. What. What did that question have to do with anything?

"The only impression I got was that he likes you, which… for him, is saying a lot. So I thought maybe, I mean… It's possible that…"

Kirby stiffened. No. If this had to do with the weird not-so-much-friends things he didn't want to think about, he was so not okay to discuss them with Magolor, of all people – or anyone: he wasn't even ready to acknowledge that it existed, least of all now.

"I'm saying…" Magolor stalled.

_How could he have figured that out already?_

_Are they invol-?_

"After Marx wakes up a bit more," Magolor said slowly, "I may, uh, I mean… wow, let me just rephrase all this in a better way." Magolor smiled, "Marx has a very special diet. He also likes to eat in private. So I think after he wakes up, it'd be nice if you just stayed back for a little bit, maybe on the Lor, and then I'll come get you when he's done."

Oh. That. Kirby was so relieved he nearly smiled, if he hadn't forgotten how for the time being. "You mean that he eats people?"

Magolor stared. "Well that sounded freakish coming out of your mouth."

He shrugged in response.

"You, uh, you know about that then?"

Kirby nodded and added, "but he doesn't do it anymore."

Magolor's stare had progressed through another stage now, from 'wow look at that five legged goat' to 'wow look at that seven headed monster with fourteen horns and a purple tongue.' "He… he what?"

Finally it seemed like Kirby was delivering some good news. "We made a compromise last year," he explained, "where he agreed not to do that anymore."

"What did you give up for it, your soul?"

"No," Kirby retorted. "He just promised not to anymore."

"So… it wasn't a compromise. It was him agreeing to stop for you without anything in return."

"Yes. I protect other people from him; that's what I do. And I'm not going to mess up again." Kirby's hand circled around Galaxia's hilt and he brought the sword into his lap.

Magolor scooted back. "Ah, okay, right? You're not – you're not planning on killing him, are you?"

"What? No!"

"That's how Meta Knight decided to go about it!"

Kirby glared. Whose side was Magolor on anyway? "Killing people doesn't do anything – neither does hurting them. I'm not going to do either."

"Hmph. Well, Kirby, I'm sorry to break the news, but Marx doesn't just give up stuff. He probably lied to you about that compromise."

"He didn't lie, Magolor. I know. He lies about a lot of stuff, but he isn't lying about this."

"Don't get upset!" Magolor threw up his hands to shield his face.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Kirby muttered.

"Says you and Marx!"

Kirby yanked his head up, "Marx is awake?"

"Barely. We probably shouldn't bother him right now."

"Is he…?"

"He's not dead, and that's all I can promise," grumbled Magolor. "It might be a while before he'll be up and moving. While we're waiting, we could start moving stuff from the Halberd to the Lor."

"Moving stuff?"

"Well, yeah. You know we're not staying on the Halberd, right? This ship isn't ever getting in the air again."

Kirby's heart sank. "There isn't any way we could salvage the Halberd?"

The Halcandran shook his head. "Sorry, Kirbster. It'd take months to rebuild it from where it's at. I don't think we even have half the materials we'd need. Plus, I have no idea how to repair ships. That's what- oh. Nevermind."

Kirby curled into himself. With the loss of the Halberd, he knew even less where they were supposed to be going or what they were meant to do. He knew they couldn't stay on Nashira; that was out of the question; and logically it made the most sense to just take the Lor Starcutter and leave but…

But for the things they'd be leaving behind.

"How did you crash anyway?" Magolor was asking.

"Ran out of fuel," answered Kirby, absorbed still in his grim thoughts.

Magolor chuckled. "So you were right, after all."

Kirby shrugged. "I don't feel very victorious about it."

"Marx gets reckless when it comes to the people he cares about," sighed Magolor. "He's too willing to kill himself for what he likes. It's a pity the fuel didn't hold for just a little longer, though."

"I didn't really get the impression he cared about too many people," Kirby said lowly.

"Nah. All the devotion most people get over a whole slew of friends, Marx concentrates on a very limited number of people. Probably why he's so dedicated."

"Does Marx have friends other than just you?"

Magolor choked out a laugh. "Uh, not really, no. By few people, I really only mean two."

"Two?"

"Yeah. You and me."

A pregnant pause. "So, you… you know him pretty well?"

"He's a little tricky, but I'd say I'd know him better than almost anyone."

"So you'd know if he cared about me?"

Magolor smirked beneath his scarf. "Kirby, he was way too mean to you over our call for him not to like you."

"That doesn't make any sense. And if he cared about me, wouldn't try to… not… do these things?"

Magolor shrugged, "I never said he was good at liking people."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"He doesn't always know what to do is what I'm saying. How to treat people nice."

Kirby nodded mutely. "I think I know what you mean."

"So, uh.." Magolor clapped his hands together. "All the stuff on this ship is either yours or Marx's, right? So you're gonna need to tell me what to move. Clothes, toothbrushes, any valuables? What do you guys have on this huge ship?"

More like toothbrush, singular, but Kirby wasn't about to mention that. "Clothes, yeah… We just stocked up on food, too."

"Don't worry about food. My Lor has some pretty nifty machines that can make whatever you like."

"What?"

"Not even kidding!"

"I'd like to bring it anyway…" Kirby said uncertainly. "We did spend quite a bit on it. Anyway, Marx likes the foreign foods."

Magolor shrugged, "alright, but I'm not gonna carry anything unnecessary over."

In the end, excepting the food, there was very little that Kirby wanted to take from the gargantuan ship.

It helped that they had left Dreamland with nothing. Everything they'd used had been first found upon the Halberd itself, and everything was replaceable. Kirby considered taking the captain's chair out of sentiment, but Magolor sternly dissuaded him once they actually made it to the shattered control deck: the chair, along with everything else, had been reduced nearly to rubble.

They salvaged several boxes and packed everything in those few.

"No chance you could just levitate this stuff over?" Magolor complained beneath a pile of these boxes as they cautiously picked their way out of the Halberd and into the desert.

"I told you I don't know how to control it," grumbled Kirby. He wished Magolor would stop bringing it up. He felt miserable enough without everything else going on.

"Just asking," he sang. They dumped the few boxes into the Lor's control deck.

This was the first time Kirby had seen Magolor's ship, and he found it left a sour taste in his mouth.

Everything on the Lor was too bright, nearly all painted in blues and white. All the halls were empty and spacious; its engines, too, were silenced by design and did not produce the same comforting hum Kirby knew from the Halberd.

When Magolor advised that Kirby package up whatever food he wanted to bring, Kirby was happy to comply because it meant returning to the familiar dark ship – however ruined it was now. Magolor mentioned he was going to stop by the nearest town for supplies, even though Kirby wasn't sure what they actually still needed.

Of course, he figured it out fairly quickly when Magolor returned not half an hour later – but he did not return alone.

The Halcandran was sneaking back into the Halberd while leading a hapless messy-haired Nashiran boy probably around Kirby's age. The boy was looking very un-amused and wore a deep frown.

"Ah, Kirby!" Magolor spread out his arms as soon as he glimpsed Kirby, "there's my friend. I have other help, of course, but Kirby here isn't very strong, so… we needed you, Telranni."

"Telvan," the boy responded in annoyance. "What do you need me to carry out?"

"He's helping us move?" Kirby asked. 

"Of course!" Magolor said, "right this way, Telvan." They wound down the hall, and Kirby frowned. They had already moved everything out, and anyway, that hall wasn't where any of their personal stuff had been. That was the first-

Then it hit him.

"Magolor!" he yelled, stalking down the hallway, "I know what you're doing!"

"Doing? I'm not doing anything but moving out our valuables!" Magolor responded, waving his hand idly above his head.

"Uhuh right." Kirby caught up and nagged Magolor's arm. "Tel- Telvan, do you mind giving us a moment?"

The boy scowled. "You aren't paying me enough to be standing around when I need to back home."

Magolor slapped a bunch of notes into his hand and Telvan, eyes wide, added, "On second thought, I can wait."

Kirby dragged Magolor away and hissed in his ear, "Marx isn't going to accept that."

"Kirby, I do very much think you're a good person, but Marx needs to eat properly, and as his friend, it's my responsibility to feed him. Please don't interfere with that."

Kirby pulled a face, "ugh. This… this isn't the first time you've had to do this, is it?"

"Ah, no."

"That's disgusting. But I told you he doesn't do that anymore!"

Magolor carefully touched Kirby's shoulders and steered him to the side, "sorry, Kirby, but Marx does lie. Please stay calm. No crazy power-loaded attacks." He scurried back to Telvan. "Here ya go! Into this room, please."

Telvan clambered down into the first aid room; his fingers had barely left the frame when Magolor slammed the door and locked it.

"Hey!" Came a muffled shout from within, "hey what's wrong with you?" Banging on the door, "let me out, right n- oh."

"You put him in _alive_?" Kirby said.

"I don't want to do the dirty work!"

"Marx isn't even in a fit enough shape to walk around…. How is he supposed to…?"

Magolor cringed, "he has his ways, Kirby. He can be persuasive."

Well that was disturbing. "He's not going to do it," Kirby insisted darkly. "I told you. He promised me, and for all his other faults, he's kept that promise."

"I'm sorry Kirby," Magolor placed a hand on his shoulder, "I really am. I know you hate seeing death and you don't want to adm-"

"I'm not a whore!" Telvan suddenly screeched up, "and your stupid handicapped friend isn't interested in me anyway! Let me out!"

"I'm not handicapped, you asshole!" roared Marx, rapidly followed by, "fuck! OW!"

"What the-"

"I told you!" Kirby said. "I told you he wouldn't!"

"But I don't understand!"

"Let me out!"

"Don't make me reconsider eating you!"

"You're disgusting! Open this door, you perverts!"

Bewildered, Magolor unlocked the door. Out climbed Telvan, cheeks darkened, eyes aflame with anger. "I can't believe you," he snapped at Magolor and stalked down the hallway, "I'm keeping your stupid money!" he added before breaking into a run.

"Aw." Magolor wilted on the spot. "I was gonna take that back after Marx was done."

"I told you," Kirby repeated. "Marx promised. Anyway, I said I'm not letting him hurt anyone else."

"Yeah." Magolor appraised him with new amazement. "I can't believe it."

"I'm still hungry!" Marx yelled up. "Foood. Need food."

"That was supposed to be your food," Magolor exclaimed.

"Yeah well blame Kirby. Blame him for all your problems, actually. Just bring me something to eat."

Magolor shook his head. "He really likes you."

Kirby shrugged and turned away. That didn't stop him during the fight.


	12. Chapter 12

Galaxia he stored in the room Magolor had given him aboard the Lor Starcutter – he would have preferred to keep it always by his side, but knowing Marx, he'd never be left alone about it.

It was better, he figured, to not mention anything about the sword. No doubt Marx would make him get rid of it or otherwise make him regret his decision to keep it.

The week proceeding gave him plenty of time to think – much more time than he really wanted, truthfully.

There were a hundred different things demanding his attention; morals tugging both left and right, and emotions as contradictory as fire and water. He very blatantly avoided visiting Marx, and just as frequently made himself sparse when it came to Magolor. Luckily, neither sought his attention much: Marx failed to because for several days afterward he couldn't climb out of the first aid room; Magolor, because he seemed always too edgy and nervous around him.

Kirby guessed that he should appreciate the distance and space; he hadn't been craving human company very much, and Magolor and Marx weren't exactly the types of people he ought to hang around. Of course, he didn't really have much choice in that regard.

His ability to choose his own company had ended with the decision - if you could call it that - to go with Marx in the first place on his exodus from Dreamland.

Kirby very stupidly (and briefly) considered visiting Earl Kavika, but forcibly rejected that idea upon recalling the state in which he'd last seen the Earl. Chances were, if he returned, Earl Kavika would imprison him and demand to know Marx's location.

Frankly, Kirby felt that he deserved nothing better than that.

But then he'd be giving up.

And giving up…

Even after everything, he couldn't conceive it. He had to keep fighting, even if at this point he'd long ago lost the battle for his own life.

There was some consolation in knowing Marx couldn't really destroy anything else of his. Keeping things, making friends – those were risky activities.

He admitted that it was risky for him to know about Fumu, and risky even to keep Galaxia, because both things mattered greatly to him. If Marx found that out – well, they wouldn't be around much longer to matter, would they?

Somehow that didn't manage to be as consoling as he'd hoped. Part of him had somehow thought that Marx had nothing left to take away.

Another part only hoped that he didn't.

Oftentimes, Kirby woke in the mornings still believing that Meta Knight was alive. He'd rouse from the depths of sleep with his heart oddly lighter. Deep down he'd feel this lurking dread, like a demon hovering at the edges of his vision, but for just a few blissful seconds he'd dismiss it and be if not content, at least satisfied.

That feeling never lasted long.

He'd open his eyes to the Lor's empty white and blue walls, and he'd remember.

The loneliness didn't help.

More than once he found himself cradling Galaxia on his bed, letting tears silently stream down his face.

Magolor had caught him crying, once. Kirby avoided him even more after that. He couldn't take the pitying look, the sympathy. He didn't want people to sympathize with him. He didn't want them to try to make him feel better.

What was the point?

After… everything… what was the point in trying to do something like that?

A lot of this time, Kirby couldn't even care about whatever purpose he had. Sure, it was a wound, and unpleasant nasty one – Marx and Magolor always knew more than he did, and they were never telling. He'd done something terrifying there within the Halberd's hull, something out of his control, and since then he could swear he always felt it looming around him.

But whatever it was lay dormant while he was so broken and exhausted.

He feared it, but fear was like neutrality now. It was like a constant state of being; a baseline to always rely upon.

At least, that's what he tried to convince himself.

He tried to assure himself it wasn't anything, it wasn't worth it in the grand scheme of all the terrible things happening.

He tried also to tell himself he wasn't scared.

Despite his claimed indifference to his destiny or powers, Kirby's thoughts began to ceaselessly circle around them. He began practicing.

 

Kirby splayed his hand a few inches over the spoon. The only way he'd done this before was by getting upset. Was that the only catalyst, or had that been only a coincidental trigger? Either way, he wasn't quite to the point yet where he'd willingly make himself more distraught just to move a spoon.

He closed his eyes and concentrated. He tried to image the utensil beneath his hand in as perfect clarity as he could; each little scratch and dent and stain; and then furrowing his brow he imagined it moving, it would jump a half inch to the right, it would yank as if on a string, and settle on that spot on the table…

He peeked one eye open.

Nothing.

He sighed and retracted his hand.

"Messing with Magolor's silverware again?" came a familiar voice from behind him.

Kirby tensed. Just this morning Marx had finally made it on board the Lor Starcutter, and clearly avoiding him was going to become much more difficult.

"How'd you know I've been doing that?" Kirby said quietly.

"Magolor, duh. Told me you spend hours trying to move spoons." The jester circled around him. His movements were intended to be sly, Kirby guessed, but he used the table heavily for support, and his hand jolted to his chest when he settled into a chair opposite Kirby.

"It's not working anyway," muttered Kirby.

"Hmm… I'm not surprised."

"What do you mean by that?"

"If it were easy, you would have done it on your own already."

"I did do it though. Why can't I do it again?"

Marx snorted. "You only did it under… duress, you could say. Specific circumstances."

Kirby looked away. Right. Duress. "Why am I still talking to you?" he wondered aloud, softly.

_Because there isn't anyone else to talk to._

_because you're so lost that you missed someone like him_

"Oh, c'mon don't be that way. You talked to me after Fumu's death too, remember? Hm…" Marx tapped his lips. "I guess there was that little period where you were all angsty and refused to get out of bed. Oh, and when you refused to eat; that was fun. Hey, you're not gonna do that now, are you?"

Kirby shook his head.

"Good. You need your foods, Kay. Nutrition and those important things. We can't have you dying on us." He reached across the table; his cold fingers slid under Kirby's hands and stroked his palms. Instinctively Kirby reciprocated the touch. Curiosity replaced disgust; he absent-mindedly rubbed the knuckle of Marx's missing pointer finger.

"I keep forgetting it's gone," Marx admitted lowly.

Kirby couldn't say that he related to that feeling. Anything he lost hurt enough that he could never forget.

"You were worried about me, weren't you?" he pressed, a coy smile encroaching on his face.

"I reopened your wounds, actually," Kirby let out in a shaky breath.

"Aw, that's unkind, Kay."

"You could have been seriously hurt."

"I was under the impression I _am_ seriously hurt. My whole torso looks like shitty patchwork. Guess what, though? It matches my hat! Some reds and blue, some stitches. It's perfect."

"Marx, I could have-" He ducked his head. "I don't know why I…. I wasn't even _feeling_ anything at the time."

"Magolor already told me what you did," Marx drawled, removing his hands from Kirby's. He crossed his arms very delicately and added, "I don't hate you for it, so get over your guilt trip already."

Kirby flushed. Well, didn't Magolor just tell him everything.

"It was your knight that cut me anyway. It's hardly your fault."

"I'm scared. I don't hurt people, Marx. You know I don't."

"Do I?" Marx said, quirking an eyebrow. "Who really knows? Maybe there's something evil in you too. It wouldn't be surprising, you know… You're far too good to not be hiding something. From me, from Magolor… from yourself."

Kirby froze. "That's not true. You're lying, right? Tell me you're lying."

Marx threw back his head and laughed, before the laugh degenerated into a pained wince and he clutched his chest. "Damnit! Ugh, this'll kill me I swear."

"You know me! I don't do those things! I'm not like you!"

"Hehehe…. Relax. You're too weak and pitiful and self-hating to ever hurt someone. I could never be afraid of you."

He really didn't have to make that sound so demeaning. "That's comforting."

"But have you been afraid of me?" Marx pressed.

"What?"

"You haven't slept with me in a week."

Kirby flinched and made no reply.

"Have you been afraid of me?"

"Not any more than usual."

"Magolor told me you're still sleeping in the Halberd."

Kirby frowned. "Does he just tell you everything about me?"

"Haha, he's informative. You have no secrets here."

"I never have any secrets." Except about Fumu being alive.

"Why have you been avoiding me?" Marx smiled, turning his head to the side.

Kirby jumped and glanced down; Marx's nails were gouging themselves into his forearms. He thought he had forgotten the sensation of fear, but very suddenly he recalled it. With the fear came a surge of hatred for his selfishness. How could he be afraid of what Marx would do to him, when the greatest risk lay in what Marx would to others?

Letting out a shuddering breath, he forced himself to relax; he made no move to fight. "I was avoiding you because of what you did," he recited carefully. "I didn't want to spend time with you after watching that."

That. That. Watching that.

He couldn't even say it aloud? He couldn't even give Meta Knight that much respect?

"I see." Marx's aggression softened into a caress.

The tension had left as suddenly as it came; he certainly wasn't going to protest at the change.

It was something he'd learned with Marx – that every mood was apt to change at any moment, and it was better to seize them as they came or avoid them until they left.

Daringly, Kirby stretched his arm out further and let his fingers trail over Marx's wrist and forearms. Normally, Marx would quickly move away and snap at him; this time, he held very still. Kirby rested his fingertips over a thin blue vein; pressed ever-so gently into his skin.

It seemed so strange, but he couldn't define exactly why. Marx always leapt from one emotion to another, wild, unpredictable; then, ever so rarely, he'd be like this – not exactly steady, but at least more or less placid. Not outright vindictive, at least.

It was a phenomenon that only occurred when they were alone. Or rather… nearly alone now.

The thought made him tense.

"Where's Magolor?" asked Kirby.

"Spending quality time with his ship. I wouldn't bother him if I were you. It's just us."

That sounded too personal, and yet not necessarily in a bad way.

"Then… could we…?" Of all the absurd questions to ask. Casually rest together? Platonically lay in bed and pretend everything's okay?

Because a week after-

After.

A week after it, he was already ready for this again?

There wasn't any world where that could be okay.

Kirby was very tired of trying to fit into what was okay and what wasn't.

If this wasn't directly hurting anyone… couldn't he justify it? In fact, wasn't it considered beneficial?

If Marx was with him, he certainly wasn't off causing mischief and murder.

But Marx understood. His eyes narrowed to delighted slits and he grasped Kirby's hand with a flourish. "I thought you'd never ask."

Ten minutes later, they were nestled more or less comfortably in one of the Lor's bedrooms (thankfully without a single sighting of Magolor on the way – Kirby wasn't sure he could live down coming across the Halcandran at the moment).

Marx was thin and boney, like a bunch of PVC pipes jammed together to make some vague human shape. His clothes were never quite clean enough and honestly that didn't even start into the state of his hair, always stuffed beneath his hat and sticking out at odd angles.

But he wrapped around Kirby like some cage of wires, and he managed to be everywhere at once; cupping his neck, petting his spine, tangling their legs, forehead to forehead, he was a mesh blanket very reluctant to give up his charge. In some ways Kirby guessed that made him very much like a weapon too: something that could easily constrict and throttle. Kirby wouldn't doubt his willingness to do something like that, either. But it also made him invulnerable. Secure.

For once he really didn't want to think about how screwed up that was.

He also really didn't want to think about why they had decided to sleep in the middle of the afternoon. Was it not excuse enough that he'd slept terribly ever since that fight? That he really hadn't slept soundly in a long time?

That nightmares were becom-

"Hey, watch it!" Marx spat out suddenly; Kirby realized with a start that he'd clenched his fists in Marx's shirt and consequently must have bumped against the scar.

"S-sorry."

"Che. Just watch yourself. I could still die, you know."

"Don't say that."

"Are you worried about your precious Marx? You don't want him to get hurt?"

"I don't want anyone to get hurt."

"Oh, stop sounding like such a broken record. Anyone else but you would want to tear out my heart. You're just too good, Kirby… "

"I'm not really." _Because I haven't actually managed to do anything good. I couldn't actually stop you._

"You try too hard," scoffed Marx. "Has it not even occurred to you? This close, your hands against my chest… you could do it. You could tear open that cut again. Remember? You started to, before."

"I'm not like that." Like you. "I don't want to."

"C'mon, little Kay," he wheedled. "Aren't you a little tempted?"

"No!" He couldn't even think of it, not now. His actions before, they were some terrible lapse of judgment and feeling and morals. It wasn't something he ever intended on doing, forget _repeating._

"Please, Kay?" he whispered like honey on a thorn.

Nauseous now, "why would you want me to?" This was supposed to be a pleasant break from thinking these sort of difficult things. Why couldn't Marx ever let it go?

Marx laughed lightly, "I'm just that sure you won't." And suddenly there was some change of power; Marx flipped on top and pinned his wrists in what Kirby assumed was supposed to be an aggressive show of his strength.

Unfortunately, it didn't really work out quite the way he hoped.

"Owwww, owow," Marx's hands flew to his chest as he straddled Kirby's hips.

Kirby tried to bite back a giggle and failed; Marx hissed in response. "Don't-! Don't you laugh at me!" He sternly pointed his stubby middle finger at Kirby and glared. "You're supposed to be afraid of me, remember?"

"I still am." Kirby rested his hands behind his head and surveyed Marx thoughtfully. "These are some of your least terrifying moments."

"When I'm injured? That's cruel, very cruel."

"No… not necessarily injured. Not weak, either – because you're terrifying when you think you're weak. Just…" Except words fell short because he wasn't sure what this was. Whatever mood Marx got into, it was like a temporary – but very complete – change of personality. Kirby had no definite way to describe it; he only knew that he could sense it.

Like one moment Marx had signs up everywhere screaming 'danger tread carefully' and then the next moment he would take everything comically and didn't have a single truly hostile thought in his head. There wasn't any way to really explain that to Marx.

Marx was staring in anticipation of a response; Kirby shrugged. "I don't know. I wish you'd be like this more often."

"Would you be happy, if it was always like this?"

Happy…? He hadn't thought about what would make him happy in a long time. He guessed that he'd be more satisfied if he knew what he was, where he was going. If he knew what Marx wanted from him, and what plan he and Magolor had devised without Kirby's knowledge. But would that make him happy?

Where things stood now, with Fumu in Dreamland _but alive, so wonderfully alive,_ and Meta Knight dead… What could happen now that would make him happy? He struggled to answer, but Marx ended up seeking none.

"Do you think one person can always be one thing? Always calm, or always humorous, or always understanding? Where does that leave room for change? Improvement or degradation?"

Too many questions. Kirby shifted beneath Marx, consciously aware that he still hadn't gotten off. "You're not… murderous, at least. I think you can still go through different emotions like this; thoughtful, annoyed, hurt, curious… Being somewhat more relaxed doesn't mean you're confined to just one emotion."

Marx snorted. "It is duller, though isn't it…?"

He seemed to be mostly talking to himself; Kirby felt distinctly as though he'd lost track of the conversation.

"I might be happier," he said slowly, "if I knew what I was. Why I'm here."

"Now isn't the time for your existential crises, Kirby."

He sighed. Well, it was too much to hope for to have that mood last anyways.

"Magolor!" blared a very intrusive and insensitive voice, "stop making that expression towards the Lor - that is VERY inappropriate. Your life is PG; keep it that way."

Magolor whirled around, "What? I wasn't-"

"This cut is bleeding again. Fix it, pretty please?"

"I was not – wait, how'd you open it again? Marx, you weren't picking at it, were you?"

"Uhhh." The jester rolled onto his booted heels. "Erm. Yes. Yes I was."

Magolor grumbled beneath his breath, "it's never going to heal if you keep doing that…"

"It's mostly closed," Marx defended with wounded pride. "That whole shallow part's already healed over."

"Come on," Magolor sighed. "I guess I'll take care of it… again."

"Hyee!" Marx trotted after Magolor happily.

"In other news," Magolor said over his shoulder, "the Lor Starcutter is all set to go whenever we're ready. You… are ready, aren't you?"

"Of course, of course. Kirby only needs a few more days to adjust; poor little victim hasn't been able to let go of the Halberd, methinks."

Magolor frowned. "Huh. We're staying for him?"

"Well… partially," Marx said quickly. "I can't exactly be injured when we do this now, can I?"

"I'm not sure how much that would interfere… but you're right. Better to be safe than sorry! Who knows what we might have to do."

"Hehehe, don't be afraid, Mags. I'm your way in, remember?" He fingered a gold chain, faintly hidden in the collar of his shirt.

"And I'm the way out," Magolor couldn't help grinning beneath his scarf as he gathered antibacterial ointment and skin glue. "You know, I'm not one to claim victory before it's all said and done, but… I gotta commend you, Marx. I never imagined you'd actually be able to get the Kirby of the Stars."

"Ye of little faith," winked Marx.

"Hey, it couldn't have been an easy task. Someone with that much power? I'm amazed you could get him into such a… submissive attitude."

"Oh stop, you."

Magolor's yellow eyes yearned up as he worked, "how did you do it?"

"Eh? I'm magic, Magolor. It's sorcery. Masterful sorcery, but still-"

"Modesty, from you?" Magolor chuckled. "Marx, come on. What really happened?"

Marx tugged the rim of his hat down and sulked. "It's actually not that interesting."

"You gotta tell me. Even if not to impress me. If you told him any lies, I need to know them too. It's so awkward talking to him without knowing what he knows."

Marx shrugged.

Magolor set down the tools and crossed his arms. "Okay. A chance to brag about your exploits, and you're not taking it."

Marx stuck out his bottom lip. "It's not that interesting."

"Not that interesting?" Magolor gave an 'I'm not buying any of your shit' expression and Marx pouted.

"Fine! I didn't know he was the Kirby of the Stars at first."

Magolor choked. "What?"

"Okay he didn't look the part! When we made this whole plan, I kinda imagined him to be some kickass powerhouse that fried planets with a single glance or something! He was just – just some sixteen year old kid!"

"Fair enough," admitted Magolor, "to be honest, I thought he looked pretty shrimpy too."

"Yeah, well, the name was weird but I don't know, people name their kids stupid things."

"So?" Magolor urged. "You gained his trust once you did learn?"

"It wasn't difficult. He was so very unsuspecting… he trusted anything that walked up to him and said hello." Marx's eyes went distant. A barbed wire smile wreathed across his lips. "He was… fun. So easy to play with. So naïve… Eheheh… if you think he's innocent or naïve now, you should have seen him then."

"Uh."

"I coulda got him to walk in any trap I set. I coulda told him to walk off a cliff and he'd do it." Marx lapsed into excited giggles. "He's a lot of fun now, yes; but it's a different sort of fun. He's so much more cautious now. He's starting to le-"

"This still had to do with the plan, right?"

Marx whiplashed back to the present. The smile faltered at his lips. Very low, very serious, he uttered, "no. I didn't care about the plan then. He was just entertaining."

"Marx…" Magolor said softly, "you're with me a hundred percent on this, right?"

"Of course! I had my fun, Mags. That's all in the past. I'm so hundred percent right now."

"Because it's been years in the making," Magolor continued, quirking his head to the side slightly and surveying Marx like a strange new artifact to be examined. "We've worked on this a long time, Marx, and it's gotta go just right."

Marx peeled back his lips, revealing his fangs in a distorted grin. Leaning forward, he gently pushed aside Magolor's hood and whispered into his ear, "he trusts me in all the ways he shouldn't, my dear Magolor. Believe me… our plan will go perfectly."

 

"Wow Kay, look at how far that spoon moved."

"Whu-" Kirby snapped his eyes open and slumped. The spoon hadn't moved an inch. "That's mean."

Marx laughed. "Didn't I tell you, you can't do this?"

"No, you said it wasn't surprising that I couldn't."

"Oh. Well, you can't do it; stop trying. It's really pathetic."

"Why not!? I did it before!"

"More importantly," Marx said, slinking closer, "why do you care?"

"I just do." Because it scared him. This ability, it terrified him; his nightmares were infected with it; garish scenes of destruction where he was the cause and the power controlled him, not he the power, and for once even Marx was helpless to it.

"Lying doesn't really suit you. I thought you didn't want to be like me?"

"I'm not like you."

Marx chuckled, "oh, it starts small. Little white lies. It gets worse, y'know. Keeping bigger and bigger things hidden. Lying to yourself, even. Once you start on that path, it's so easy to keep going. It's…" Marx sucked in a deep, exhilarated breath.

Wrong. Careful. Be careful. Kirby closed his eyes and regulated his own breath, trying to act something like a filter; taking in Marx's excitement and letting back out only calmness. If he were calm, maybe Marx would be also.

"Do you know how I could learn?" Kirby said, his voice controlled and even.

"Funny you ask… I may know a few things."

Kirby dared to open his eyes. "Would you want to teach me?"

"Hmm… I'm no expert in your talents, you know. But you aren't starting with the easiest one."

"The easiest one?"

"Isn't telekinesis."

It took him a minute. "You mean…"

"That's right. Moving things with your mind isn't your only talent." Smirking, Marx dropped into the chair opposite Kirby.

Kirby unconsciously really hoped this wasn't going to become a habit of the jester's. He was used to these mini teaching sessions of his being private.

"There are more?" he whispered, afraid without knowing why, tense without knowing the cause.

"Rss… fuck," Marx kept a hand against his chest, "yes. Telekinesis, it isn't even your primary ability."

"Then what is?"

Marx grinned through his pain. "It would scare you."

"You scare me, and I'm still here."

"I scare you?" he purred.

"Yes. You're not human enough. You're soulless. You kill without regret and you like to toy with me."

Marx raised his eyebrows. "Well, well, Kay. You're certainly honest today."

"Do you think you could be honest in turn?"

"Hmm…" he went to lean slyly back in the chair, but quickly snapped forward again and curled his arms around his stomach, "fuck!"

"Galaxia's cut?"

"What gave it away?" said Mark darkly.

It had been a week. But the cut had been deep, Kirby acknowledged. "You're supposed to be up and walking?" he verified.

"I have freakin' Halberd-sized bruises on my spine from that metal table," snapped Marx, "I better be fit to walk around."

Well, it wasn't like there was any stopping him once he decided to do something. Sighing, Kirby relented, and asked what he truly wondered,

"What's my primary ability?"

"Persistent. Fine… I'll show you." Marx held out his spidery hands and offered Kirby a playful smirk.

"I'm supposed to hold your hands?"

"I imagine it'll help for your first time trying. I'm not sure if you'll always need it."

This very easily could be another trick. Knowing this full well, and expecting it, Kirby extended his own hands and laid them atop Marx's.

"Good… close your eyes."

"Close my eyes?"

"The less distractions, the better."

Or rather, a better opportunity for him to get tricked, Kirby thought. Nonetheless, he closed his eyes. "Okay, I'm ready."

"Good. Excellent. Now… Think about that fight, Kirby. Between Meta Knight and I."

Kirby's eyes snapped open. He yanked back his hands. "You're trying to hurt me again," he said.

"I'm helping you." Marx encouraged, sickly sweet. "It's going to hurt, but I'm helping you. If it were easy, you would have done it accidently by now, yes?"

Kirby nodded. Slowly, he placed his palms back. "This won't hurt anyone else, will it?"

"Just you, if anyone," Marx replied; it shouldn't have been consoling but was.

His eyes slipped closed.

"Good," Marx purred. "Relax. Think back to the fight. It'll hurt, remember; it'll hurt. But you have to let it, all right?"

"You're going to enjoy it," Kirby resisted.

"A little, but it's not why I'm doing this. Can you remember the details?"

Too vividly. The hatred, and whirls of color, terror…. He began to tremble.

"Not like that," Marx said softly. "You have the scene, the setting, the stage… Now let everything shift a little. Use that sympathy of yours. That empathy. Imagine the fight from my point of view. Imagine… everything from my point of view."

What. That was a lot easier said than done. There was so much he didn't know about Marx, th-

"You're thinking of all the ways you're insufficient," sighed Marx, "you'll never get it that way. Think of all the ways you are sufficient."

All the ways… Well. He had to admit that despite all that he didn't know… there was a fair amount he did know. Information he didn't think anyone in the world but Marx himself (and perhaps Magolor) knew.

Everything started around his appearance. The malice in his purple eyes, the slash of his fangs as he –

_No don't linger on that_

His spidery fingers, now missing one and a half of their brethren; his multi-colored patchwork outfit and the hat he never forgot to wear, his lanky hair.

Then there was the ill-fitted humor, desperation of someone half-dead and hopeless, his murderous inclinations and boundless immorality.

There was the quiet timeless evenings in the Halberd, when all the hatred and rage and malice and laughter were stripped away and left something small and thoughtful and -

"Hey, you're just imagining me, aren't you?" whined Marx.

"I'm trying to," Kirby said, his eyes still screwed up tight.

"Hmm… It's not working."

"I'm _trying."_

"You really suck at this."

Scowling, Kirby yanked his hands away. "I said I was trying, Marx."

He rolled his eyes. "This should come naturally to you. It's like, innate ability. I can't believe you've never even used it before."

"What exactly am I trying to do?"

"Here, come here." Marx yanked him up towards a mirror on the wall. He aligned them side by side. "You see me, yes? And you see you?"

"Um. Yeah."

"Good. Now try to see two of me, instead of you and I. Like if I were you."

_What?_

He was getting increasingly certain that Marx was completely deceiving him for no real reason. He had no other power – the jester was only messing with him because it was funny.

Nonetheless, he sighed and prepared to do as Marx asked, just waiting for him to start poking fun as soon as he got too into it.

He studied their reflections – he saw Marx enough, and didn't linger on it. It was his own reflection that he paused over.

He hadn't seen himself for…. Weeks? Months? Just when _was_ the last time he'd really looked at himself in a mirror?

Stress and insomnia had left bruises around his eyes; his hair was in desperate need of a cut, and his clothes had never fit his emaciated frame so poorly before.

_This is… really me?_

Dreamland, his home – it never seemed further to him than now.

It was easy to want to change himself, when he looked like that. Never had he so thoroughly wanted to look like someone else.

He couldn't convince himself that his image was actually changing, but he could pretend – that his eyes were purple, not blue; that his hair was darker and straighter. That he was somewhat taller and paler, too; and furthermore not passive but r-

When it started to physically hurt, he was caught off guard. His eyes scorched in an abrupt flare of blinding white light; he shut them against the assault but they burned beneath his lids. The pain ricocheted back into his skull and raked along his scalp before starting afresh in the very roots of his teeth; incisors rotated against the tender stringy flesh grounding them in, and inflamed his throbbing gums.

The ferocity of it sent him nearly to his knees; only Marx clutching around his middle kept him levered and upright; the jester for his part was chuckling lightly,

"Ah, it seems like it's working… a little."

Nearly as soon as those words were spoken, the pain vanished.

Kirby staggered upright.

Upon opening his eyes, he found that the white sunburst was gone.

Disoriented, he met his own reflection.

He froze in place.

_Oh no._

_Nonononowhat_

Marx was laughing. "You almost made it there, Kirby! Silver medal for the effort, right?"

He couldn't believe his own appearance.

Kirby raked his hands through his hair in devastation. The long blonde waves had been replaced by ramrod straight black hair – or, at least, black in certain patches; in other areas it was more of a yellowish grey. The tips were faintly purple in vague reminiscence of Mark's hair, but still a little too light.

Meanwhile, his irises had changed to a dark blue that he guessed was supposed to be Marx's purple, but hadn't quite made it there.

"I think I'm going to be sick," Kirby uttered, his stomach churning.

"Oh no you don't. C'mon Kay, look at you! It's a… a cute start."

"Cute?" he gagged. He leaned forward and opened his mouth, poking his incisors queasily. They weren't exactly identical to Mark's, but they certainly weren't his normal teeth either.

"Yeah you made it about halfway there; not too shabby." Marx giggled, "It's adorable."

"I look horrible."

"Aw, that's rude."

" _This_ is my other power?" As powers went, it was revolting. He didn't want anything to do with a power like this; it was worse than the telekinesis.

"Uhhuh! One of a few, I imagine."

"I don't want it. How do I change back?"

"You don't."

" _What?"_

"I forgot to mention? It's irreversible, Kirby. Once you've changed into someone else, you can't change back."

"What?!" Kirby rounded on him, but Marx burst out laughing again.

"Oh Kirby, your expression is the best thing in existence. Ffaahaha, to think you'd get stuck that way, it'd be great, I'd die from laughing."

"So how do I change back?" he demanded.

"Kehehe, don't ask me these questions. I didn't even know if there was a certain way to make you change in the first place! I was making it up as I went along."

"Marx, this isn't funny!"

"It's hilarious, Kay, admit it."

"Marx?" a third voice suddenly interrupted. Magolor peered from around the corner, and his amber eyes were narrowed in a look none-too-happy.

"Eh?"

"Can we talk… in private?"

"I'll be right there, Maggy." Marx patted Kirby's head, "never fear! Look in the mirror and try to change back or something." He slunk off with Magolor and Kirby was left staring at his own distorted reflection in horror.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has come to my attention that people actually read this story on here - I know, it amazes me too! But it's re-invigorated my efforts to continue adding chapters so... hopefully eventually I'll get to them all...

_A not so long time ago…_

The library. Two very simple words, one that meant virtually nothing to anyone but yet wormed itself into every sentence like a particularly insistent weed. Nonetheless, the second word overshadowed the first so greatly that any redundancy could not be noticed.

Meta Knight had come across many libraries in his admittedly long lifespan, but the archives stored beneath King Dedede's castle had to be his favorite. The collection was modest at best in terms of variety and rarity; in terms of size and style, it was horribly deficient. If Meta Knight valued libraries for any of the above reasons, he would dislike the woeful conglomeration of dusty tomes stowed in the basement of the castle.

But Meta Knight was a soldier above all else, and valued the library for things deeper than that.

Dreamland had long since become a jail for him; a prison he willingly subjected himself to for the sake of another. He despised his existence within it and spent each waking minute shutting himself away from people as best he could.

The library was his reprieve, his passage, his escape.

All at once it was a taste of the world outside; a whisking hint of the scent of ink and oil and parchment by a kerosene lamp; it was someplace far far removed from the follies of Dreamlanders. It exercised a mind wearied by toiling ignorance, it challenged him to recollect old subjects and assimilate new pieces of information; small ones, for at his age there was very little he didn't know – or so he liked to think. The library took away his age-old exhaustion and replaced it with something akin to child-like wonder.

By these things Meta Knight judged the library, and by these things it earned its place as most sacred.

Unfortunately, a very curious pair of eyes had been interrupting his library excursions lately. Someone had been following him into the library and lurking amongst the shelves as he sat and read.

They peeked out often. They brushed against books. They scuffed bare feet against concrete. Sometimes they muttered under their breath. Clearly, they did not know of Meta Knight's acute hearing.

For many afternoons, Meta Knight ignored the watcher, assuming that they would approach if they were interested enough. They never did, which meant they never had the intention to, or something stronger than curiosity bound their will.

Finally, Meta Knight had had enough of the game – more specifically, he'd had enough of being watched. He came here to be alone, and that hadn't occurred in nearly a week.

One afternoon, while quietly sitting at his 'study,' he called out softly, "I can hear you there, you know."

A harsh, intentional silence. Whoever lurked amongst the shelves behind him did not move.

"Generally," Meta Knight continued, not lifting his eyes from his book, "speaking aloud to yourself is a poor way to remain concealed."

Yet again, only silence answered him. Many long minutes passed, wherein Meta Knight imagined his watcher must have been getting quite sore from standing so still. It must have been nearly twenty more before he heard small feet retreating. A door somewhere distant open and shut. Meta Knight read the remainder of the afternoon in peace.

His solitude was not meant to last long. The very next day, his watcher returned. Meta Knight's patience was wearing thin.

"People come to the library to be alone. They do not look favorably on eyes following them as they read."

His watcher left.

The next day, he was back.

A sharp chastisement was at Meta Knight's lips when one tentative bare foot stepped out from the shelves.

Now, Meta Knight's 'study' was so positioned that he faced away from the shelves, towards the back wall. As a fairly paranoid soldier, this was the least strategic of positions – at least it would be, if he relied primarily on sight. However, his sense of hearing and smell were sure enough that he felt confident in turning his chair to face the wall, with his book resting upon an old oaken table he had pushed there.

Conveniently, this seemed to also be the most comfortable arrangement for his watcher, who was ever so hesitant to approach.

When Meta Knight heard that first step, he understood two things:

Firstly, his watcher knew he was frustrating Meta Knight. Secondly, he was making an effort to relieve that frustration by approaching, despite whatever had held him back in the past.

"I thought you would never come any closer," Meta Knight said monotonously.

Finally, finally, he received a response. The voice was as tentative as his steps; vowels were strained out like thick tar seethed through a grate; consonants were clumsy and halting. But it was a response. "Not if you were to cut me," the watcher said.

Meta Knight would have laughed, but something was too serious about the words. "Is it Galaxia you fear?" he asked instead.

Pause. "Galaxia," repeated the watcher, and the clarity of his speech startled Meta Knight. "His sword is called Galaxia. Galaxia." Each pronunciation became more perfect.

"It is of legend; older than I… for those who believe such things." No harm in a tale no one believed.

The watcher was silent. Listening.

"Like all good stories, there is a long version to it, and a short version." Meta Knight closed his eyes. "I fear the long version is not one I can reveal to you. But if you wish for a shorter tale…." A pause.

The watcher offered neither agreement nor argument. Meta Knight resumed;

"The sacred sword Galaxia was forged before the beginning of time, by the fiery hands of a race of giants… forged by Photron; king, lord, and commander over all of his race. These ancients knew a mystical, now lost, art… they could harness the very power of the stars into the weapons and trinkets they forged, granting these items not only sentience, but immortality and infinite wisdom."

Meta Knight paused. "Galaxia was one of many, though I have not seen the others with my own eyes. I am but her humble wielder. Often… often I think myself unworthy, but she does not seem to agree, not yet."

Sighing, Meta Knight opened his eyes. He was getting old. Reminiscent. Indulging himself in vague stories of his past, like some fool. "At any rate," he said slowly, "I would never draw her against a stranger. I hesitate to draw her even against a foe, unless I must. You have nothing to fear from her."

The watcher turned, and left. Meta Knight resumed his reading and all but for a little nagging in his head, thought no more of the visit. When the watcher returned the following day, and Meta Knight related another tale from his time in the war, he tried not to think on that either.

He pretended that he did not need someone to listen.

The barrier between he and the villagers, see, could not be broken. When he spoke to them, they knew nothing of his history. He had torn the sun from the sky, he had rocked the earth, he had slain friend and foe in turn, he had won battles and commanded soldiers… but not a single villager knew of those deeds. Even if they did, they would see them as witty but trite tales of battle and woe. They wouldn't see them for what they were.

And nor should they.

Their innocence was the very thing that had brought him here in the first place. It was also the very thing that ground at his nerves.

Yes, the innocence was to be treasured and he wished he could admire it.

But he'd seen too much war to enjoy simple peace.

And if the watcher came, day after day, to hear Meta Knight speak of old tales that no one else remembered and no one else cared of… then where could the harm be?

Soon enough, the watcher even bared his voice to ask questions.

"Where's Nightmare's Fortress?"

"Why did Kirasikin talk to you and not Garlude?"

"Where are Sword and Blade now?"

And, spoken most often, "Why do you wear that mask all the time?"

Some Meta Knight answered; most he did not. He felt that the watcher chafed against his secrecy. Often he demanded to know why he couldn't know something; but Meta Knight's answers were as vague as ever.

Some stories were too dark to relate. Too painful.

Soon enough, Meta Knight began to have questions of his own. "You know much of my stories, now, and much of me. But of you I still know very little. I do not even know what you look like, as you hide so frightened behind the shelves."

The watcher was silent.

"We could begin with a name," Meta Knight prompted.

A long pause. Then, spoken too quickly, "Galacta Knight."

Meta Knight perked an eyebrow. "Galacta Knight? Is that so?"

"Yes."

With a name, however invented, Meta Knight assumed he had permission to look as well as hear. He turned to face the watcher.

For such a well-carried voice, however clumsy, Meta Knight had expected someone into his early teens. The boy hiding behind the shelf could be no more than five or six. It explained the lightness of his feet – which, on closer observation, were just as barefoot as ever, and covered in filth. They matched his strange outfit, which was a conglomeration of fabrics in varying shades of green and brown.

Meta Knight guessed that this child could be very adept at slinking around outside without being seen, particularly so because his hair matched the night.

"Curious," he commented mildly. "You look nothing like the Galacta Knight I knew."

The boy's jaw dropped. "You met him?"

"A long time ago. I recall him being taller, with white plumed wings two span his height, and a lance he was never seen without."

Eyes narrowing, the boy made some quick calculations in his head. "You're lying. You can't be that old."

"The villagers would not believe so either," Meta Knight sighed. "You need not believe me. I merely assumed you were wise enough." A quiet challenge, that the boy made a note of not picking up.

He retreated a step into the shadows; regretfully, as Meta Knight was still trying to discern his eye color. "Maybe I was named after Galacta Knight," the boy hazarded.

"Maybe not," countered Meta Knight.

"Fine," the boy grumbled. "My name is Arthur. Sir Arthur."

"The leader of the Galactic Soldier Army?" There was no doubt about the name itself, of course – if Meta Knight heard it anywhere, he'd immediately know. What shocked him was that this child knew about that name. No one in Dreamland did.

The boy hesitated, then nodded.

"You are Sir Arthur?" repeated Meta Knight.

"Yes."

Bemused, "you certainly got smaller."

"There was an accident," the boy said matter-of-factly. "I was fighting demons and then one of them magicked me into like this. I'm trying to find my way back to my soldiers. I'm going to win the war."

"You should not even know of that war," Meta Knight said harshly. "Where did you learn?"

"I told you. I'm Sir Arthur and-"

Meta Knight slammed his book shut; the watcher flinched violently and recoiled deeper into the shadows. "Do not claim to have titles greater than your own," Meta Knight hissed, and stalked from the library with his cape fluttering behind him.

For many days, Meta Knight avoided the library. He paced the halls of the castle and gazed out from the balconies. As a rule of thumb, he avoided also the main road and the houses in Dreamland, seeing that he didn't want to speak with anyone.

Sometimes he'd stop by Parm and Memu's house within the castle, to visit Kirby - but the young warrior was always far too eager to see him, and there was always too much cape-tugging and squealing and Meta Knight-towing.

It didn't take Meta Knight long to leave and sulk in the hallways again. As Dedede's bodyguard, he spent very little time actually around the king. There simply were no threats in Dreamland. The Star Rod protected them, as it ought.

This left Meta Knight with very little to do.

Eventually, he wandered back to the library and hoped that the watcher had simply decided to leave him alone – if not, Meta Knight was not above chasing him out with the threat of Galaxia.

When he finally returned to his reading spot, he had but a few minutes to wait before familiar bare footsteps sounded behind him.

His hand settled on Galaxia's hilt; he was an inch from pulling it out when a sullen, miniscule voice muttered resentfully,

"My name is actually Marx."

Meta Knight let his hand drop away from the hilt. "Do not ever lie about your name, Marx. Those with grand titles have earned them. If you wish your name to be known… then you must earn it yourself."

The boy nodded, and this was the unspoken cue for the caped warrior to begin another tale.

 

In time, Meta Knight learned a few things about Marx. Some the boy told him; most he merely deduced.

Firstly – the boy had a furious passion for stories, most particularly fantasies. He needed a sword-wielding, dragon-slaying hero to look up to. (He was very disappointed to hear that Meta Knight had never faced a real dragon; although, he was quick to forgive him since Meta Knight had slain demons.)

Secondly – he had a memory nothing short of remarkable. He was a human sponge; he could recite Meta Knight's stories nearly perfectly word for word after hearing them, and he assimilated knowledge from books nearly as rapidly. This gave him a hatred of repetition and a constant need for new things: if Meta Knight ever repeated himself or tried to tell a story twice, Marx would complain heatedly. Even at his age (which Meta Knight never quite learned), he could read and write proficiently; although it was all mimicry. If there were errors he had seen in books, he was apt to make the same error without knowing it was an error. Even if Meta Knight tried to correct such an error, Marx would get fussy and stubbornly refuse to change it.

A few other facts Meta Knight assimilated that were less glorious; Marx had, evidently, never taken a shower in his life, and the concept confused him; he lived somewhere just outside the borders of Dreamland (it wasn't a subject he elaborated much on); and he had a habit of climbing on objects – Meta Knight was very unhappy to discover that Marx sometimes slept on top of the bookshelves of the library.

Finally, the boy had a nasty affinity for pulling pranks. Initially, this had confused Meta Knight; it did not seem to add up very well with the rest of Marx's personality.

It was with Marx's reactions that Meta Knight finally understood.

When he replaced Meta Knight's reading chair with one that had a weakened leg, Marx howled in the shelves as if he'd never seen anything funnier as Meta Knight went flailing to the floor with his cape and arms and legs splaying everywhere.

Meta Knight got to his feet and chastised Marx with a bruised pride, but it didn't stop the mischievous boy from loosening the handles on the library door and thereby causing Meta Knight to yank it out when he tried to get in.

When, however, Meta Knight got cleverer and learned to avoid any such tricks, Marx's reaction became gloomier and sour.

Meta Knight understood.

Marx might be extraordinarily smart for his age, but he never received acknowledgement for it. In fact, he never received any sort of acknowledgement from anyone but Meta Knight.

He was, by intentional design, fashioning an impression of himself for others that he could control. Sure, he must have simply enjoyed a laugh as well, but Meta Knight suspected that the grand purpose of his actions were more to control people's opinions of him.

"You should not be so afraid to be yourself," Meta Knight said once, after narrowly avoiding face-planting on an oil-slicked floor.

"How did you notice?" Marx groaned, pointing at the floor. "it doesn't even look that different."

"It strikes the light differently. You will have to clean this, Marx. The vapor will get into the books and rot them." That was a complete lie, of course, but Marx didn't need to know that. Meta Knight highly suspected he wouldn't lift a finger to remove the cooking oil unless he had a valid reason – and the destruction of the books was as valid as any.

"Meh." Marx kicked at the oil and nearly fell on his butt in the process.

Meta Knight wound through the shelves to his study. "You seem very determined to extrude another fall from me," he called over his shoulder.

"Just hoping that one of them will get your mask off," Marx said, trotting after him. "Talk about being scared!"

"It is not fear that keeps it on."

"Really? What is it?"

Meta Knight gave him a long look. "Not all stories should be told."

"I get it," Marx smiled, "you did something you're not proud of."

Meta Knight sighed. The boy was getting increasingly cocky, and as a result, not just a little bit vindictive. This may have had to do with Meta Knight avoiding his last three pranks. Humility and defeat were two things Marx could not handle well.

"I have freely told you many tales of my life," he said. "And yet you are unsatisfied."

"Duh. You're pretty much the most interesting – no, the only interesting – person in Dreamland. All the villagers, they're – boring. Followers." Marx screwed up his hands and made motions in the air as he contemplated the subject, "they're the people that sit by and watch stuff happen. You're – you're different; a doer! A maker. You have a sword. And a cape. And a mask. I read a story about someone who had a cape. He-"

"Marx." Meta Knight held up his hand; Marx frowned surlily. "I am not a storybook hero. The tales I have related are not heroic… although they sound so when retold, they were truly unpleasant to have lived. Do not glorify them."

"Okay okay," Marx grumbled. "But you still can't tell me why you won't ever show your face?"

"No."

Marx scowled.

"Perhaps there are other things I could teach you," continued Meta Knight.

This had Marx's interest piqued. He didn't like to admit that there were things he didn't know; but he readily seized an opportunity to learn more. "What things?"

Sword-fighting was on the tip of his tongue; despite it being years since the war, Meta Knight still viewed it as the finest builder of strength and character. But he knew Marx would be easily frustrated and resent the structure and steadiness of such lessons.

"Firstly," Meta Knight said, "I can teach you to properly read and write."

Marx's hopeful expression vanished. "No. I already taught myself to do that."

"Marx, you are undoubtedly clever for doing so, but there is room for improvem-"

"There is something I can't teach myself," Marx said hurriedly. His dark eyes yearned up and in them Meta Knight found something odd, something unusual. Something that should not have lived in a boy of such a tender age.

Normally Meta Knight wouldn't condone being interrupted, but that look gave him paused. Very slowly, he responded, "And what is that?"

"Teach me magic."

Meta Knight blanched; or at least, gave the greatest reaction that anything ever invoked in him. His eyes paled. "Magic?" he said lightly, regretting his inability to disguise his eye color.

"I read about it," Marx nodded.

Meta Knight's eyes eased back to their usual yellow. "Not everything written in a book is the truth."

"No," Marx acknowledged with some frustration. "But this is. I can do it myself."

Meta Knight sat very still in his chair. "You can perform magic?"

"Yes."

Pause.

"You don't believe me," Marx said. "I can show you."

He cupped his hands gently together and screwed up his expression as if trying to stare a hole through his palms. Several moments passed. Nothing happened.

"Just wait," Marx ground out. "I've only done it on purpose a few times."

Suddenly, the very air became imbalanced; too thin, like something crucial had been removed from it. Meta Knight breathed in, but it was like the oxygen wasn't strong enough to expand his lungs – his veins constricted and he would have yelled at Marx to stop, if he wasn't choking on air.

He hardly noticed when this thinness, this lack of air, centered a few inches above Marx's palms. A swirl of black conjured into existence and revolved eerily, suspended by nothing.

Marx closed his hands and it was gone.

Smiling, he glanced up, "see? I told you-"

Meta Knight's eyes were pure white. His voice was as emotionless and blank as a grey slate, "where did you learn to do that?"

"I didn't learn." Even with Meta Knight as he was, Marx couldn't restrain the pride in his voice. "I just did it myself."

"I see." Meta Knight's eyes returned to yellow as he composed himself.

Out of nerves, Marx rattled on, "I did it on accident a few times. But I didn't know how to get better at it. Any books I read on it only called it a myth. I need someone to teach me."

"Why do you wish to learn?"

Here Marx hesitated.

Meta Knight himself wielded very little knowledge of magic, and very little ability to use it. There had been soldiers in the war that fought with their magic, however, and from them he'd gained firsthand witness of just what it could do. "Magic is a dangerous and unwieldy art," Meta Knight resumed, without waiting for Marx's reply. "The study of it is not to be taken lightly."

Again, Marx did not answer.

"You need not have a reply now," Meta Knight relented, "but I will not help you at all until you do, and until I consider that reply sufficient."

"Okay," Marx's expression brightened in an altogether worrisome look.

"Marx?" Meta Knight added shortly, "do not dare lie to me." The threat remained implicit.

Marx nodded again, slower; his eyes had briefly flashed in fury before dulling in acceptance.

For many days after, he returned to the library only to hear a tale or two from Meta Knight's life. He was oddly withdrawn, much as he had been when he'd first started following Meta Knight into the library.

"I'm ready to tell you why I want to study magic," Marx said one day.

"Mm?" Meta Knight turned his head slightly towards Marx and faked nonchalance.

Nodding, Marx tilted his chin up and spoke clearly, "I want to study magic because I know I'm meant to."

"Meaning…?" prodded Meta Knight.

Marx blinked. "It happens on accident sometimes. There's something – something in me that makes me different from people like the villagers. Something that wants it to happen more. I want to learn more about that something, and I want to be able to use it – control it."

"So in essence, you wish to study magic because you desire to make yourself even more different than the villagers? You desire something that makes you strikingly more powerful than them. Perhaps, you would use it to show off your skill to them, else use it to frighten and intimidate them."

Marx gaped.

"I will not help you learn," Meta Knight concluded.

Marx clenched his fists. "You can't do that! I need someone to teach me! And you're the only one who knows anything in this stupid town!"

Meta Knight set down the book that he had barely read and turned his full attention to Marx. "Let me make a few things very clear to you, Marx. I have seen magic at its worst – something you would likely call its best – and I have seen the terror it can inspire. I have seen entire planets cracked and crumbling by the power of sorcerers in the military. I have seen the very same sorcerers driven mad by the things they have done."

"I'm not afraid of that!" Marx retorted. "I can handle it!"

"And that is the problem," Meta Knight said calmly, picking up his book. "You see my words as a challenge, not as a warning."

"Grrhh!" Marx let out a frustrated half-scream and stomped away. Meta Knight listened as he slammed the library door.

He wasn't overtly concerned; no doubt the boy would be back the next day, if not sooner. Meta Knight picked up his book and enjoyed an afternoon of reading – for once, undisturbed.

His nonchalance was perhaps his first mistake. His second was in underestimating the power of loneliness in a small, abandoned child. There were others, less significant, and hardly worthy of mentioning.

In the end, though, circumstances very much out of his or Marx's control were what drove all the mistakes to tipping point.

Those circumstances had little to do with the Star Rod, little to do with Dreamland, little to do with even Popstar.

They had something to do with a magician and ship, somewhere in a very different place, in a slightly different time, beneath the still-hot remains of an old volcano.

They had more to do with the single blood-red eye of an avenging angel. An angel that surveyed the world around it and hated all that it saw... and it saw everything.


	14. Chapter 14

In the end, Magolor wasn't sure if he stole the Lor Starcutter, or if the Lor Starcutter stole him.

He guessed it was somewhat of both. The two of them had needed to escape Halcandra's gravity, but neither could do it alone. Only together could they finally break free from that stagnant atmosphere, and once they did so, the entire universe lay at their fingertips.

They were lost and guideless; but they were together, and they were free.

That very first flight had been one of enthusiasm– even the Lor hadn't been able to contain herself from gleeful leaps and dives and twirls, many of which had Magolor clinging for dear life to the control board and pretending he still had some semblance of control over the rhapsodic ship.

"Ahhh stahp Lor what are you-"

Bonk! His head bounced against the control board as the Lor completed yet another delighted loop-de-loop. At long last, his hands flew free from the board; he arced head over heels through the hair and flopped onto the control deck.

Sorry, chimed the Lor, stopping so swiftly that Magolor cringed.

"Mfhgh…." Magolor patted the deck dazedly, "'s all good, 'sallfine Lor… ow."

_Your heart rate is_

_Twenty beats above average state_

_Your body temperature is_

_0.1 degrees above average state_

_my examination shows that none of your bones are broken_

_and that bruise should heal within approximately 4 days_

_Your blood pressure is-_

"Lorlorlor," Magolor sat up and glared sternly at the ceiling, "Stop that now. I'm not hurt, I promise you. Remember when I said you couldn't hurt me?"

_You were lying at the time_

Miffed, Magolor got to his feet and straightened his cloak – never mind that throbbing bump on his head. "I'm not putting up with your nonsense. You aren't going to hurt me, so stop worrying!"

No response.

Magolor frowned. Well now, that didn't mean she had to be all rude and refuse to talk to him altogether. He scrunched up his nose. "You could maybe worry a little, Lor. Just a little."

_I sense the power you described_

Those words were all it took. Magolor froze in place, his heart dawning to hope.

"Where do you sense it? Is it close?" he urged, rushing back to the control board and placing his hands upon the psychedelic panel.

See, within the veins of the universe ran a lifeblood, stronger and more powerful than anything humanity could know. Long long ago, the ancients learned how to imbue this blood into forged objects; ships, weapons, stars.

Since then, the art had been lost. Now, only the scattered creations of the ancients remained to evidence the great craft.

By this art the Lor Starcutter was created, and along with her many others – though Magolor did not know what they were or where to find them.

Nonetheless, the Lor Starcutter, being fashioned from such power, had the innate ability to vaguely sense the location of these other items. To her, it had always been just a background noise – through Magolor, she was learning to hone her ability and track those powers.

Of course… they hadn't quite managed to find one yet, but they'd only just started, and anyway, it looked like things were turning around now.

_There are two nearby sources_

_"Two_ nearby? Did they just appear?"

One, yes. The other is old

_The other_

_Comes from the dragon that guards the shrine_

Landia! Of course; it made sense. A creature as powerful as Landia must have been a vessel for that power this entire time, but Magolor never realized it.

_It is the crown she possesses_

The…. His eyes widened. Oh.

"Then we must fight her for it!"

 

"I did it, I did it! It's all me!" Marx gleefully pranced around the crumpled form of something close to a woman, chortling to himself.

Oh, it hadn't even been difficult! It was almost too easy… but no one else would have been able to figure it out, so there! He didn't get all that many successes in life, so he figured he deserved to relish this one to its fullest.

But… she wasn't really moving much, was she? Frowning, Marx paused in his capering. She was… not quite what he expected.

Pure blond hair and pale blue eyes, befitting of an 'angel,' he supposed. She also had adorned herself in silky gold. But the accessories….. wow. She was a weird conglomeration of items and Marx wasn't sure how he felt about that. How can you predict something with so many weird colors and objects?

"Hey…" Marx crouched beside her. "Are you okay?"

No response.

"Um. I have a wish…. The book said you could grant wishes?"

"READY," she said, her voice pure and feminine, and yet ominously intertwined with a cold mechanical backbone.

"Yes! Yes yes…"

"I WILL GRANT YOU ONE WISH."

Marx's toes curled eagerly in the dirt. He had mulled over this very carefully, very very carefully. He'd read plenty about how wishes could be twisted on the wisher, so he knew he had to be very careful. It would be best to wish for something simple first, just to be sure it worked properly. But as Nova said, he only got one wish.

He took a deep, shaky breath. "Nova, I wish I was anyone but myself." He held his breath, waiting, waiting.

"INSUFFICIENT POWER."

He gagged. "What? How can that be-? I can handle whatever power you have to give me!"

"NO. INSUFFICIENT POWER SUPPLIED FOR A WISH OF THAT MAGNITUDE."

"I stole the Star Rod… isn't that enough?"

"NO."

"Grrrahh!" Marx skittered back and stamped his feet. "I summoned you, just like the stupid book said. I asked for a wish, just like the stupid book said. Why isn't this working?"

"INSUFFICIENT POWER."

"You're useless! The book lied! Uurghh, why am I wasting my-"

Wait.

What was that sound? Marx tilted his head to the side. Like something screaming, but far off, mechanical, getting closer, closer –

Marx wheeled around and his jaw dropped; out from the sky was plummeting a huge white-blue airship, the sails aflame, the hull scuffed with burn marks. That horrible screaming seemed to come from the ship itself, as various metal scraps were torn from its skeleton.

Before his very eyes, this ship slammed into the earth; metal wreckage and dirt heaved up in a wave and then settled with a cloud of dust.

What the-?

A rectangle in the side of the ship opened and out crawled a brown-skinned blue-clad specimen, amidst a burp of smoke and steam.

Marx quirked an eyebrow. Well that didn't happen every day.

Coughing in deep rasps, the figure dragged himself on his elbows out of the opening.

"Hey!" Marx yelled at him, "Can you go die somewhere else? I'm a little busy!"

"I appreciate your understanding!" the figure shouted back, waving a singed hand, "ow, Hnn, Lor…. Lor are you there?"

Lor? Who the heck was Lor?

"Oh noo… no no," leaping to his feet, he bolted to his ship and placed his hands upon the metal, only to shriek and leap back, shaking his hands, "Lor, please talk to me, Lor c'mon, this isn't funny you've got to talk to me, okay, you've got-"

Pause. His shoulders sagged. "Thank the stars…"

Another pause.

"I'll get you fixed. I'll find a way!"

The one-sided conversation continued in this manner, with the man alternating between crooning and despairing with – evidently – his ship.

Excellent. Great. Wow. This was why Marx didn't like people. They thought he was crazy – but hooboy, were they wrong.

The man reeled around. "You… I need your help, please. I need you to help me repair my ship! She doesn't like me to be far from her, but it looks like I'll need some new supplies. Oh gosh I hope we can fix her…."

"There is no 'we,'" Marx snapped. "I don't even know who you are."

"Sorry, right! My name is Magolor." He rushed up and placed his hand on Marx's shoulder, "look, please, I really need help. I can't stay here, and the Lor's in pain."

" _What?"_

"My ship – it's the Lor Starcutter, she's suffering."

Marx twisted out of Magolor's grip. "Ships aren't alive."

"Please. I just wish to fix her."

"No! I'm not helpi-"

"OKAY," resonated Nova's voice. "SUFFICIENT POWER. 3…."

It took Marx a fraction of a second to understand, and then he went stricken with horror. "No!" he screeched, whirling around, "stop it! That wasn't a wish!"

"2…"

"Uh, what's going on?"

"1…"

"Stop it right now, Nova! _That wasn't my wish!"_

"GO."

Pure energy, blinding as the birth of a star, whipped past him in a whirlwind. He clutched his searing eyes and cried out; around him the air sang a frigid, steely screech.

Then there was silence; the light faded.

Marx opened his eyes.

Where once lay the broken remains of the blue-white ship, now it stood upright in its full gory, entirely repaired and gleaming bright. Meanwhile, Nova had vanished.

Magolor cheered and raced up into the bowels of the ship.

What.

The.

Heck.

No.

No no no no this this stranger had not just –

A growl started low in his throat and erupted in an infuriated scream. "THAT WAS MY WISH! HOW DARE YOU-!?"

He stormed after the belligerent so-called Magolor, ready to unleash unholy hell and if necessary, tear apart the ship himself just to make his point.

He found the stranger curved over some kind of rainbow paneling, murmuring happily to the ship.

"You stole my wish!" Marx yelled, stamping, "Do you know how hard I worked to get that wish? AND YOU STOLE IT."

Magolor whirled around. "I'm super sorry! I had no idea that would happen. But you fixed the Lor!"

"I don't give a crap about your stupid ship! I'm-"

_Thank you, Marx!_

He stiffened. "Who is that?"

Magolor stepped closer; Marx immediately hated that sympathetic look upon his face, that small smile: darnit, he was still feeling victorious about his ship being fixed!

"Did the Lor speak to you? I'm sorry; I know it can be a little disconcerting at first, but she isn't hostile, I promise. She's very kind."

"Ah, hah, no, no," Marx backed up, "no, your ship can't talk; they don't do that."

"Your name is Marx?"

_I didn't mean to frighten you_

"Stop!" Marx yelled. "Get it out of my head!"

"I sincerely apologize. Lor, please give Marx a break."

The 'ship,' for all intents and purposes, did not seem to speak again. Marx lowered his hands warily.

"I'm very sorry! I wanted to apologize so much for what I did earlier, too. I mean, I didn't even realize I was doing anything wrong, but you know what I mean! I stole your wish from that Nova…. And that wasn't fair."

Marx crossed his arms churlishly. "Yeah, it was a very specific ritual to get Nova, yknow!"

"As it happens… I'm slightly interested in that, actually. How'd you manage it?"

"I'm not telling you."

A complicated ritual, you said?"

"Not complicated. Specific. Special."

"Hmm, is that so?"

"Yes. It takes a certain power, and you screwed up my only chance."

Power. Then Lor's readings hadn't been lying. The power Nova had resonated was the very same power that came from the Lor Starcutter's own heart. The lifeblood of the universe. And somehow, Marx had gotten ahold of a fragment of that power. Going on this assumption…

"How did you get this power? It must have taken an incredible amount of intelligence and guile to obtain something like that!"

"Hmm…" Ominous purple irises curved towards Magolor, surveying him. "It did, as a matter of a fact. I was the only one clever enough to figure it out."

"Figure it out?" supplied Magolor.

"Tell me about that airship. How can she talk?"

Paranoid. Unwilling to divulge secrets. Alone. Unfriendly. Isolation. And in search of power. Magolor processed all this rapidly, and having done so, leaned in, "the reason she's sentient might be exactly the same reason you were able to get a wish. The same power, you could say. In fact, I'm on something of a search for objects that possess that power."

Magolor went on to confess that he had learned about this energy, this power, on his own. Ever since, he'd been looking for items that bore this energy, such as the Lor Starcutter. He admitted also that another item, the Master Crown, lay in the clutches of a terrible dragon Landia, back on his home planet Halcandra; however, with the crown, the dragon's strength was far too great – and that is what resulted in his crash.

He continued repentantly, "Look, I honestly feel real awful about stealing your wish, Marx. So how about this? I'll help you summon Nova again, if you help me defeat the dragon Landia!"

 

Magolor could do what Marx never had been able to do….

Leave.

Run.

He didn't look back… not at first, anyway.

The Halcandran and him were landed somewhere on the eastern tip of Popstar; as of yet, their plans were virginal and incomplete. The Lor Starcutter – the infuriating pride of Magolor – was grounded a few yards away; 'resting,' according to Magolor.

For a long time now, the Halcandran had been poring over a ragged map of the galaxies, and the horizon framed behind him was just burning into sunset orange.

Marx found the process dull; as such, he was currently hanging upside-down from a branch, the tips of his hair just barely touching the ground.

The sublime expanse of singed sky reared out in every direction; for once, below, not above. Marx closed his eyes; in he breathed, stretching his lungs against his ribs. "Let's go somewhere, Magolor."

"No."

Down down down he reached, flattening his palms against soft grass and earthy mud. "I want to fly again."

"The Lor is resting."

Marx scowled. Magolor was really too controlling; he was beginning to regret coming on this journey… if not for the fact of its freedom.

Gazing into the realm of upside down trees, roots descending from a blackmud sky, Marx wondered what would happen if he were to just run now. To drop from the branch and take off into the forest.

He didn't really need the wish Nova could give him, did he? He could probably be happy, all on his own. Finally, he'd escaped from Dreamland, and maybe out here everything would be different.

"Heh." He imagined himself fashioning a flute out of wood and bark, and playing lilting tunes while bathing in filtered sunlight. "Wow, I'm lame." But it did sound like fun.

Magolor hummed nonchalantly, and Marx realized that he'd said that aloud. Oops.

"What are you doing, anyway?" Marx sighed. "I thought you said the power to summon Nova existed on other planets. Why aren't we visiting places like that?"

"Everything needs to be planned first! We can't rush in right off the bat."

"So, what? You're planning a route?"

Magolor nodded. "You said you hadn't had enough power to have your wish granted. That means we probably ought to visit many planets before trying to summon her again. This is nice, because in the meantime, I can craft the stake you'll use to kill Landia."

"Wait what?" Marx's eyes snapped open. "Kill Landia?"

"Well, yes. That's where you can help me. Y'see, I think there will be-"

"Whoa, stop. You never said anything about killing! You just said I had to defeat her."

"Hmm, I was sure I had implied that!"

"No." Marx tugged a lock of hair beneath his hat and eyed Magolor. "That wasn't implied."

"Well, that's not very organized of me. Of course you'll be killing Landia! I thought that was obvious."

"Huh."

"That isn't a problem, is it?"

"No." Except he'd never killed something before. Tricks and jokes were one thing, sure; and yeah, his humor probably ran like some jagged black river. The Dream Landers certainly liked to remind him of that often. But murder?

Magolor tilted his head curiously to the side. "The Lor says you have doubts."

Silently, Marx flipped from the tree and landed elegantly with his toes squelching in the mud. In a span of a second, he'd vanished into the underbrush.

Magolor sighed and turned back to his work. "Lor, sometimes it's better to keep it to yourself."

 _Sir, you asked me to tell you what he was thinking,_ the Lor answered with honest confusion, and Magolor shook his head with a smile.

"Is he going to come back?"

…

….

_Yes_

 

__

_"Hey, that's the spirit! I knew you'd come through, Marx."_

_Shrug. "Dragon slaying isn't really the same as killing."_

_"It'll be easy, I promise. While we collect star power, I'll make the stake we need. Then you drive it right through her heart, and baddaboom, you're done. By that time, we can use the power we collected and the Master Crown to summon Nova for you. Sounds good, right?"_

 

 

They visited planets boiling with lava and sulfur and steam, they visited planets submerged in eternal darkness, else hugged by thick fluffy clouds, or brimming with greenery and clear water, or battered by perpetual high winds. At each planet, they retrieved the star power in the form of weapons, trinkets, or random objects.

But it wasn't always rushing around. Sometimes the chaos lapsed into something more peaceful, and solemn. Sometimes, they lay out on the deck of the Lor Starcutter and gazed up at the stars of some foreign solar system, dreaming a thousand dreams and swaying with the unconscious melody of the stars.

Times like these, Marx liked the silence best, but they also spoke occasionally about thoughts that couldn't be spilled in the sunlight. On one such night, Magolor murmured softly in the dusted blackness;

"Sometimes, you gotta pause and really think about what you're doing." Hesitation, a wistful glimmer in amber irises. "None of this is what I pictured from the start."

"I don't know," Marx said, squinting at midnight. "The sky always looks the same to me, wherever I'm at. It's like it follows me."

Magolor chuckled softly. "When you're this far away, the stars don't change much. I meant that this… all this, it isn't what I pictured from the start."

Marx rolled his eyes. "You've had this planned for years. I get that I wasn't exactly what you were looking for, but you're on the way to getting what you wanted."

"It woulda been better with someone better-looking than you."

"Hey!" Marx punched Magolor and the Halcandran laughed.

"But I mean… You're right. I've been planning it for so long that I've stopped seeing it as something that can really happen – does that make sense?"

"Huh? How so? Don't you want to rule?"

"The more I think about it…." Out stretched Magolor's hands to the stars; his fist clenched as to capture them.

"Yeah." Marx folded his hands behind his head.

"People have dreams. You and me. We've had dreams – we have dreams. Except, those about power, rule, freedom… those normally are just fantasy."

Curiously subdued. Different, like Marx had gotten past the pages and pages of filler and here was the ripe truth, the sudden twist that revealed what was real.

Nobody had ever let him do that before.

Nobody trusted someone like him before.

He was just too awkward, too creepy, too narcissistic, too… Marx.

"Oh, Halcandra," Magolor said softly, and Marx held his breath. He wouldn't ruin it, this once.

"I dream of it fixed," confessed Magolor, "I dream of a Halcandran all bandaged up and repaired. I want to see the flames that create, not destroy. But... I'm also not the only one who dreamed of better. The others gave up their dreams, though. Only I… But I had help."

"Who helped you?" Jealousy? No, not that, he didn't want that – but if it had slipped through to his words, Magolor didn't notice.

"Who else but the Lor? She was the only thing that was ever there for me."

"A little outside of nature's laws, don't you think?"

Magolor laughed. "Not like that, Marx." He sat up and folded his cloak around himself. "I wasn't ever like the other Halcandrans. I lacked everything that the Halcandrans prized. My own parents didn't want me. In a place like that, Lor was there for me, ever since I found her."

"Found?" he echoed.

Magolor nodded. "She was legend, Maruku. She fought for our planet when nothing else could; like I said, they crafted her from only the strongest of materials! But even then, they sent her to fight single-handedly in a war." Magolor shook his head. "Although she defended Halcandra and won the war, she ended up crashed in a volcano. But I found her there and and helped her escape, so that's neither here nor there.

"But… she wasn't able to defend the planet from within, sadly."

Marx recalled stories that Magolor had told before, about Halcandran's desolation and isolation after thousands of years of prosperity.

"The fall of Halcandra," Marx marveled, "it wasn't an outside attack."

"No. Halcandra destroyed itself. Poor Lor couldn't do anything about that. Even if she tried. She wanted to so badly. The Halcandrans, they were her people. She saw them at their height, she loved them. I'll bet Halcandra was amazing to see on her maiden flight, even considering the circumstances." He sighed. "A bit of me wishes I could have been there. I'll bet it was a spectacle back then."

"Wasn't always fire and brimstone, huh?"

"Oh, it was. Even Lor Starcutter isn't old enough to have known a green Halcandra. But she says it was a different kind of fire back then; instead of destroying, they used fire to create. That's what she loved about them. That's why she sacrificed herself to save them. Remember that about her, Maruku. She isn't any killer, but she's loyal to the death – hers or the enemy's."

"Huh."

Magolor withdrew his hand from the hull and cast a worried glance at his friend; he was sitting oddly muted with his arms wrapped around his knees. "Marx, are you okay? I'm sorry – I shouldn't have just gone and run my mouth like that, I didn't mean to bore you-"

"It's not that." Marx averted his eyes. "I like hearing about the ship. And Halcandra."

"Oh."

"It's just… you have the Lor, and she's…" a half-laugh, "I mean, wow. She's a ship and she's got more emotion-" he cut off and tucked his face between his knees. "Sometimes," he mumbled, "I'm suddenly reminded about how you and I are different."

"Marx…"

"No. You're… I don't get it. Everything I've heard is that good people get good things. But you're... you're trying to rule the universe! You don't have a right to something like the Lor. Some pure loyal trustworthy vessel… People like us, we don't get stuff like that! You're not even supposed to WANT stuff like that!" Marx made a choked sound and buried his face in his knees again.

"Um..." Helplessly, Magolor glanced back to the Lor Starcutter. He didn't know how to handle someone upset or crying, he didn't know what to do. His mind reached out to the ship and in turn received,

_You're safe_

Magolor bristled. Of course he was safe. Why would he be in any danger?

_You contacted me. You feel threatened._

No.

_You can comforttrust him._

Magolor's brow furrowed; something had been lost in the translation between minds there. Something vague and ill-suited to words, like a piece that couldn't fit into the right puzzle.

Something like dust and iron, darkness and solitude; a recollection of lantern glow and empty halls; and then a hand out of the nothing, a soothing voice; fear and bars, connection. Comfort. Trust.

_You weren't afraid to help me._

But this wasn't his job! When had this become his job? He didn't need to look after Marx like this, they had a strictly profe-

_Friendship, Magolor…_

Magolor cast his eyes upon this gaudy green-clad creature with his hidden face and quivering shoulders. They weren't friends.

_He thinks you are_

It didn't matter, whatever that Marx was thinking, he should stop, because Magolor wasn't looking for friendship, he didn't needwant anyone but the Lor, and anyway – look at him, how were you supposed to comfort someone like that?

_Tell him the same thing you told me_

Confusion.

_Tell him he's not alone._

Magolor slumped in place. He wasn't good at the whole motivational speech thing. He figured he always came off as too energetic and too fake.

_Then mean it this time._

"Hey…" Magolor cleared his throat.

Definitely had Marx's attention now. He should have thought this through before speaking.

"Um." Cleared his throat again. "I, uh. Can I tell you more about what happened in that battle The Lor fought?"

"Hn." Marx didn't look too interested, but Magolor chugged on,

"Lor was shot down, even as the battle had been nearly won. She fell and crashed into a volcano nearby, as I said. But I didn't mention that she lay down there for centuries, still alive, still able to feel pain and even loneliness. She suffered, because the people wanted to preserve the site of her crash as a memory of that fateful day. I can only imagine…" Magolor shuddered. "Three hundred years later, that's the state I found her in. Broken, lonely, full of hatred for the people she once adored, now that they abandoned her.

"And… she found me like that too. Broken, abandoned by a family that's supposed to love you no matter what. Both of us admired Halcandra and hated its people. I knew how to repair her, and… somehow she knew how to repair me."

"I don't see how this is helping."

In all honesty, Magolor didn't really know himself where he was going. Slowly now, "I'm not perfect. No one is. But we find people like us. People that have things in common with us. You aren't perfect, Marx. But you'll find someone who will be there for you, like the Lor is for me."

 

There Landia slept, four heads and all, and a scaly tail curled around her body. Her massive wings rose and fell with huge breaths that whooshed out from four pairs of flared nostrils. The fourth head, resting on top of the others, was bestowed with that gold jeweled Master Crown that Magolor so fondly spoke of.

For all the beauty of the crown, it was the dragon that affixed his eyes.

She was…

Another exhale ruffled Marx's clothes.

She was powerful, undoubtedly, but also so very… alive. Human. She was not at all as Marx had pictured. He turned the metallic stake over and over again in palms that were suddenly very sweaty.

Part of him had gotten used to the idea of killing Landia. She was, after all, a dragon, and he'd reasoned with himself that dragons were evil. All stories portrayed them that way. All heroes slayed dragons. But no book described dragons like Landia.

None of them looked so peaceful in sleep, none of them so content.

The heated stones burned into his bare feet. Magolor no doubt waited at the base of the volcano, waited for him to get this done and signal to him 'safety.' Marx took a deep breath. After all this traveling... he had to fulfill his side of the deal. Closing his eyes, he stepped silently closer and raised the stake above his head.

Another hot breath brushed against him. He heard a small grunt and his eyes snapped open, certain the dragon had woken.

But no... she'd simply shifted her wings into a more comfortable place.

"That's not fair," he muttered under his breath. "You're supposed to look evil and menacing."

The top head yawned wide, exposing lines of razor-sharp teeth. Licking its nose lightly, this head nestled down again atop the others.

Marx lowered his arms. He couldn't do it. He couldn't kill Landia.

And that was when Zero Two appeared.

 

 

"How dare he steal the crown!"

Marx remained silent: he had not told Magolor that he'd failed to kill Landia; that the Crown's loss was mostly his own fault.

In his mind's eye, he saw those four pairs of bright green eyes, sleep-ridden still and quietly trusting. A shudder worked its way through his spine, hitting every nerve like an electric shock.

He saw those same eyes, glazed in death. Zero had killed her. Without a thought. He'd killed her because he wanted the Crown for himself, and he'd known, he'd known all along what Magolor and Marx had planned.

"Marx, are you even listening to me?" Magolor snapped.

Marx jumped and narrowed his eyes. "Duh. You were starting to sound boring." Something hurt deep in his chest, hidden behind his ribs.

"We have to go after Zero Two. I need that crown!"

"No. I did everything you asked! I fought Landia for you, and now you want me to do something else?" _I'm not going after Zero Two. You can't make me do that._

"Marx, I asked you to get the Master Crown for me! You didn't do that yet!"

"Well, I didn't realize someone else was going to take it! The deal is off!" At a time like this, he found himself oddly missing Dreamland. Hate welled up in his chest. How could he be so ruined that he missed a place like that?

Very slowly, Magolor's yellow eyes narrowed in deepening understand. "Are you… scared of Zero Two?" he uttered.

"I'm not scared of anything!"

"Marx, you don't have to be scared. You can conquer your fear."

"I'm not afraid."

"True strength lies in facing your fears and defeating them. This time, it's gonna be just a little more literal."

Marx shook his head. "I'm not facing Zero."

"Then what are you going to do, Marx? Go crawl back to where you're unappreciated, hated, even? To Dreamland, where nobody ever loved you, and you're weak and helpless? Come on. My friend is better than that."

"Fine," Marx exhaled. "Let's… let's go after Zero Two."


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These are the cut/fragmented bits of chapter 14. I decided to go ahead and post them directly onto the story itself. 
> 
> I arranged them in chronological order, but even so it can be confusing when certain things happen, so each little tidbit has its own caption at the start to tell you when/where it's happening, and to give a little context. 
> 
> The italics are my comments.

_Dreamland, pre-Magolor_

_Meta Knight refusing to teach Marx magic was never meant to be the actual termination of their interactions. This is one idea of many I had of continued meetings._

Sulking and pouting and avoiding the library were all three tasks that Marx enlisted to convince Meta Knight that he should teach him magic.

None of them worked.

Meta Knight went to the library just as frequently, and otherwise filled his time with casual strolls through the castle halls, else with standing on the balconies and looking out over the town.

He did not appear to miss Marx at all; but then again, why should he? Meta Knight was the hero of the tale, and Marx… Marx was just there. After wars and demon-slaying and princess-saving, Meta Knight probably had very little care for people like Marx – young, barefoot, and with such a tiny flicker of magic that it was hardly worthwhile.

For a while, Marx watched the knight during his daily activities, but the routine swiftly became dull. When his desire to be taught completely soured, Marx went back to practicing on his own. The tiny orb of curious darkness he created never grew bigger, nor more powerful. Instead, he turned his attention to other magic pursuits.

For example, if he focused really hard, he could sometimes wiggle objects – only if they were light – or even make a tiny popping sound with air. Pop! It was very delightful, and didn't take much energy at all.

When a few more Meta Knight-less days passed, he took the town and hid on rooftops to try out his new abilities on the villagers. The minor telekinesis went by entirely unnoticed, and the black orb took far too much effort to repeat more than once or twice. Without anything else entertaining to do, Marx had the tiny popping sound follow the villagers along the entire road.

Pop! it would go, right next to their ear, and then pop! by their feet, and when they looked about in confusion, pop! right in front of their faces.

He sniggered and giggled and spent hours confounding the villagers.

"I see you are enjoying yourself."

"Hyee!" Marx instinctively shot forward. Being that he had been laying at the very edge of the thatched roof, this wasn't a good idea – his arms pin-wheeled through air; a very painful fall seemed imminent when something grabbed his collar and dragged him back onto the roof. "H-hey.." Marx rubbed his throat and glared angrily up at the looming figure.

Meta Knight was framed by the sun, which made looking at him angrily a lot harder than Marx would have hoped.

"Whadddayawant?" Marx muttered, looking down.

"I happen to notice your activities are not as productive as they could be. What happened to reading in the library?"

"Y'know, if you're standing up on the roof, people are actually gonna notice you."

"I highly doubt they will challenge me," said Meta Knight. His words were expressionless, but his eyes briefly flared pink.

Marx chuckled. "Yeah, you're too scary."

Meta Knight sighed. "I have thus far allowed your abuse of magic, Marx, but you are testing my patience."

"What, the popping?" Pop! went the air right by Meta Knight's ear. The knight did not seem to be amused.

"I recall that the sorcerers in the military had strict tenets which demanded caution and control. Petty pranks did not fall under those tenets."

Marx went quiet, and lowered his head in something like shame.

Quietly, Meta Knight turned to observe the village below with his keen eyes. When he spoke, it was heavy, coming from somewhere deep in his chest. "You disrupt their lifestyle. Mildly, for petty pranks can do little to them. But their lives are unique. Where else shall one find a place, on any world, where people live so utterly without fear? Where danger is kept at bay beyond the boundary of the town?" His eyes turned grey. "Where, indeed, rivers flow with honey, and the trees are thick with fruit?

"I thought you hated the villagers," Marx admitted.

"No, I do not hate them," Meta Knight corrected. "I envy them. At the same time, I have no desire to be them. Envy and hate are not the same thing."

Marx's silence suggested that he disagreed, but he offered no spoken protest. Instead, after carefully mulling over something, he said, "Hey, Meta Knight?"

"Hm?"

"What did you do? Before you joined the army and slayed demons and all that?"

Meta Knight visibly stiffened.

Marx continued, "Because I always read about heroes, but it never says what they do before they're heroes. Galacta Knight; he showed up and killed Zero when the world needed him most. Sir Arthur, he fought against Nightmare when no one else dared to, and then started the GSA when he failed. I know all their names, but…not who they were before they were heroes."

"My name is not like theirs."

"But you were something before you joined the army. I've been thinking, lately-"

Harsher now, "my example is not one to follow."

Marx flinched. A long silence stretched out until at last he found his voice again and tentatively pressed on, "but maybe it is. If you started out as something else, but you ended up like you are now…"

"Heroes are not what you think, Marx."

He turned, and vanished from the roof.

 

_Dreamland, pre-Magolor_

_Stealing Meta Knight's mask. There were many (incomplete) written versions of this event, but I think this was most revealing and so I chose to keep it alone._

"Huh." A slow smile curled at the edges of Marx's lips. "I get it now. I read about people like you. Huh. Hah." A dawning laugh. "All this time you've been making these stories, painting yourself like some hero-"

"They are not only stories," Meta Knight said quietly. "I have spoken not a single lie to you."

Maybe not. Maybe all those stories were true. And given what the mask revealed… well, it truly explained a lot about his dedication to eradicate the demons. But he wasn't exactly… wasn't exactly what Marx expected.

Even so, he was still Meta Knight. And the knight seemed to assume he would go off and tell others about what he'd seen.

Glancing down at the mask in his hand, Marx could see why. He hadn't exactly done anything recently to suggest otherwise.

"I'm sorry," he muttered. He held out the mask; instantly it was snatched from him. Marx kept his eyes lowered as Meta Knight fitted it back on his face.

"There is nothing you can say to repair what you have done," Meta Knight said shortly.

"But… it isn't even that bad," Marx protested. "And it's just me. I swear, I'm not gonna tell anyone."

"Begone." Meta Knight turned away.

 

_Pre-Landia. The start of Marx's patchwork shirt_

_Is it bad that I imagine present-day Marx to still have one patch of the old green?_

"My shirt ripped," Marx said mournfully, poking at the thin fabric. The ends had long been frayed, but at last a long tear had appeared up the side.

Magolor curled up his lip. Marx's state of dress was always something Magolor disliked (the differences were astounding – Magolor kept his cloaks in pristine shape; Marx meanwhile wore the same rags every day. And his lack of shoes!).

"Seems like the time is ripe to replace it," Magolor suggested. "I bet we can stop by some shops on the next planet."

"But I like this shirt…. I made it myself."

That explained why it was so haphazard. Magolor sighed. "It's ruined, Marx."

"Do you have a needle and thread?"

"No, I don't-"

Marx silently marched out of the room, and Magolor stared. Um….

Several minutes later, Marx marched back in with a broken safety pin. He sat on the floor and promptly tore the bottom of his green shirt until he had in his hands a long length of shoddy thread.

"You're kidding," Magolor said flatly.

"Nope."

"Okay, okay!" Magolor left and hurriedly returned with several spools of multi-colored thread, scissors, and a variety of fabric squares. "If you're so determined to make your own clothes, why don't you use any of this?"

Marx leaned over and carefully inspected the fabrics. "None of this is green. Don't you have green?"

"No-can-do. You don't find much green fabric on Halcandra."

"Huh…" Marx frowned and ignored the fabric, but soon enough realized that his own methods of repairing his shirt weren't working well enough. The thread he'd gathered himself was fragile and prone to breaking; each time he tried to thread it through, he ended up with two smaller pieces, each successive piece even less useable than the last.

Growling under his breath, he reached for the fabric and thread Magolor had brought.

Without green as an option, he took a long time deciding on the thread. Red, orange, blue, silver, black? In the end, he chose a particularly dark purple, because it reminded him somewhat of the sky at dusk. He also decided upon a matching purple fabric, in order to fill in the gap created by the tear.

The purple was somewhat regretful, since it would create a long dark stain on the side of his shirt, but he much preferred a single tainted patch to a whole new shirt. Anyway, dusk was neat.

"Wow, you're actually really good at this," Magolor marveled, kneeling next to Marx.

"Shoo," said Marx.

"Huh?"

"Go away. I want to work on this alone." He'd never had someone oversee his shirt-making before, and he didn't really like the experience.

"Um, why?"

Marx paused to glare. "I'm going to wear this every day for a very long time. I want it to be perfect."

Magolor wandered away frowning, thinking there was no end to the weirdness of his newest companion.

 

_Pre-Landia, learning about magic from Magolor_

"It's rumored to be one of the only things that can kill Landia."

"Huh."

Magolor was working with the metal rod that was to become a stake. More particularly, the state designed to kill Landia.

Marx perched over his shoulder and carefully watched, although he didn't understand any of it. With meticulous patience, Magolor was carving into the metal surface faint runes – disappointingly, none which Marx understood, even though he'd read many cipher and rune books prior to leaving Dreamland.

"What does it say?" he pried. If he was going to kill something with it, he ought to know what it said. Or at least more about it. He hated the look of it so far.

"Honestly?" Magolor replied, "no idea."

"What?"

"I don't need to know! After the Lor and I failed to defeat Landia the first time, I knew we needed a better solution. So the Lor dug up a bunch of old databases on the subject, and it turns out there's only a few ways to even hurt something like that dragon. This stake is one of them, but it's obviously gotta be riddled in all kinds of complex magic. Way beyond what I ever learned in Halcandra. So the Lor just tells me what I gotta do to make it right."

"Magic?"

"Sure. Landia's Halcandra; it makes sense that she's magic too." Magolor uttered, unable to disguise his sudden bitterness.

"Do you hate magic?" Marx said carefully.

"We aren't on the best of terms," answered Magolor, although his eyes narrowed imperceptibly. "Halcandra has always been famous for its sorcerers. Healers, conjurers, illusionists, forgers…. You can't find a single art that someone hasn't somehow mixed in with magic!

"Supposedly, Halcandra itself was a mine of magic power – of the energy and blood of the universe. They say it got into the blood of the people and gave them magic. Well, at any rate, if Halcandra once was a mine of power, it isn't anymore. There is some lurking in reservoirs around the planet – like in the volcano Landia guards. But nothing substantial." Magolor waved his hand dismissively. "It would explain why I was born without an ounce of magical ability."

"Huh." Marx folded his hands neatly in his lap and fell into a brooding silence.

Magolor continued to work, speckling the air with tidbits of information about Halcandra and the Lor Starcutter.

It occurred to Marx that, without touching a single book, he was sure getting a lot of stories.

Just as Magolor was putting the finishing touches on the stake, Marx hopped off his chair and padded quietly from the room.

 

_Pre-Landia_

The journey wasn't all fascinating fire and ice and wind, or unexplored territory, and curious creatures and languages and fauna. For every new amazing place they visited, there was a dull period of a few days wherein they did nothing but drift seemingly destination-less through space.

"It's way faster than regular space-travel," Magolor had cheerfully informed him once, and gone on to explain that the Lor traveled often by wormholes. "We basically spend one tenth the time in the air!"

But whatever Magolor said, that one tenth of time was downright painful.

Marx had never known the restrictions of walls; he had never known locked doors or jammed windows. Instead, he'd slept beneath the stars at the borders of the town; he'd crept along rooftops and ducked into shadows, and spent long afternoons traipsing in the woods. The library had been the only home he'd known, and even that he always retained the right to leave whenever it pleased him.

On the Lor, he had no such freedom. He paced the long blank hospital-white walls, but his legs only took him in circles. He ran up and down the two floors of the ship, but couldn't escape from the sterile dull cleanliness. He lay awake at night, longing for the sound of insects and animals and trees whispering into the wind. Many times he regretted his decision to come with Magolor at all.

Maybe, maybe it wouldn't be so terrible to be himself. Wishing on Nova seemed like such a distant event, so small compared to now.

How wonderful it would be, to wander Dreamland freely again, to smell the rich musty scent of the library, to feel the hot sun on his face, to sneak around in the tall grasses once more. Surely he didn't need anything more than that? Something felt sick and heavy in his chest; not just once did he throw up the food Magolor's ship provided.

He wondered often what Meta Knight was doing – if he still roamed the library too, like some poltergeist bound in place. Maybe Marx would visit him, when he got back.

Once – just once – Marx fingered the patch of purple on his shirt and vaguely wondered what Meta Knight would think of it. Then he had to laugh at himself for having such a stupid thought.

 

_Pre-Landia_

"Don't you have any friends?"

"Friends?" Magolor laughed. "I don't need friends! I've got good old Lorlor! And you, of course; you're my friend."

"Is that enough to make you happy?"

"Sure! Why would I need anything else? Aren't you happy?"

Marx didn't answer. But, he figured, if he were happy, he would never have thought to wish on Nova.

"C'mon Marx. What more could you need?"

"Don't you ever feel like there's something more?" Marx said quietly. "Like, not something specific, but…. Don't you feel like you're meant for something more than all this empty space?"

Magolor spread out his arms; behind him the Lor's display illuminated his flowing cloak and shadowed his hooded face. "What more? I'm on my way to collect the most powerful objects in the universe. With them, I'll be unstoppable. Who could be luckier than me?"

That did make sense… Marx frowned. Everything about their trip was new and special and different from Dreamland. Even so, he felt just as bored and listless as before. That irritating sensation of something more hadn't left him. But why not? He had no idea what that something more could be - and if he couldn't even imagine it, how could he know to experience it?

Is this what Meta Knight had meant when he said being a hero wasn't what he thought it was? All those long marches beneath an alien sky, all the demons he'd killed, all the adventures he'd had…. Did he also, all along, feel that it wasn't enough? That there must be something more?

Magolor crossed his arms and tilted his chin down so that his yellow eyes could be seen, friendly in their gentleness. "You think too much, Marx! It's better to be happy with where you're going, than so doubtful. Once you get doubting, you don't stop, no matter what you do or where you go. But if you're always confident, you're always confident! That's it!"

 

_  
Post-Landia, learning magic from Magolor_

Holed up in the bowels of the Lor Starcutter, Marx was hovering several brightly-colored rubber balls above the palm of his hand. "I've gotten so much stronger. Just yesterday, I teleported from the deck to the kitchen!"

"Yes, but think of that ability doubled, tripled! I've told you about the Halcandran magicians and their power, Marx. That could be just a start for you."

"There are things I can't do," Marx admitted lowly. Above his hands the rubber smoked, simmered, and then caught fire. The flame reflected in his purple eyes. "Things I'd like to do…"

"Exactly. You know my knowledge of magic is fairly limited. I can only teach you so much, and – even as talented as you are – I don't know how you'd manage to get enough strength without some help. And Nova could give you that power. You're a natural at magic, Marx, you're already way better at it than I am! If you just changed your wish…"

 

_  
Post-Landia. Maaaggicc._

Unfortunately, Marx had apparently taken it on himself to create his own solitary lessons. One of these lessons which Magolor happened to stumble upon at a very poor time for his stress.

"What are you doing?" he shrieked, rushing into the kitchen.

"Ch-ch!" Marx held up one hand cautiously; before his eyes hovered a clear crystal glass – one of the Lor's finest collection, and not at all something he was supposed to have gotten his hands on. "Don't bother me. Lemme do it."

"Not this," Magolor pleaded, "please not the glasses – or the plates, or the – Marx, couldn't you have practiced with something less breakable?"

"I got bored. I'm getting this; don't distract me."

"Augh." Magolor clutched his face.

"I've got this."

"Just set down the glass, please… Gently."

"Oh fine…" Marx rolled his eyes, but unfortunately the loss of eye contact was unfavorable to the glass. It shot across the room and shattered itself against the cupboards. "Oops. Sorry, Lor."

So it started with shattered glass. Soon enough, all range of items were flying around the inside of the Lor Starcutter. Marx delighted in his newfound power a little too greatly, and spent copious amounts of time levitating food, silverware, chairs, and once, a good portion of Magolor's closet.

Magolor really didn't want to talk about that latter incident.

Soon enough he was landing and shooing Marx off the Lor as often as possible, just to prevent his poor ship from being littered by more miscellaneous items.

 

_  
Post-Landia._

_Marx remembers that Magolor said there is someone for everyone. Oh, and Marx very close to himself in Leech._

Marx brought someone new aboard the Lor Starcutter. She wasn't exactly the 'take-home' sort of person, though – by the dark rings under her eyes and her soulless stare, she easily could have been mistaken for a corpse.

"Um. Excuse me, but who is that?" Magolor demanded, as Marx casually sauntered to the kitchen with this girl in tow.

"She's Ellen. We're friends. Say hi to Magolor, Ellen."

"Hi Magolor."

"Friends."

"Mhmm" Marx opened the Lor's cabinets and pulled out a bag of chips, which he promptly opened for the explicit purpose of munching on whilst gazing appraisingly at Ellen.

Magolor waved his hand before the girl's eyes – she didn't even flinch. "She uh… she's not looking too good."

"No," agreed Marx with a frown. "No, she isn't."

"Uh."

Sighing, Marx elaborated, "I visited town and met her. Her dad yells at her a lot, though, so I thought she'd rather hang out with us for a bit."

"Huh." Magolor poked her face; she failed to respond – not even a single blink!

"Hey, stop harassing her," snapped Marx.

"What's wrong with her?"

Marx growled and set aside the chips. "Fine. I've been trying to…expand on the things you've been teaching me. About magic and all that. I know that my skill at the moment isn't gonna be enough to really help us with anything. So I think it'd be useful to practice more… to try different things."

Dread sunk into Magolor's heart. "What…?"

Marx smiled. "I've been trying to perfect it. I've messed up a lot, but I'm getting there."

"She's under a spell?... Mind control?"

"Yes – no. Not really. I keep trying but…" Marx clenched his fists. "It's hard to control their minds. I tried so many times with animals but they kept dying."

Magolor narrowed his eyes. If not mind control… "You're controlling every cell in her body." Impressed? Maybe just a lot. Still… "Marx…" He closed his eyes. "Why did you bring her here?"

Offended, "I thought we might start to grow on her."

It clicked. Stern now. "Marx, that isn't how you make friends. She'll never like you like that."

She wrenched her jaw open; blank eyes, "I care about you, Marx."

"Forcing her to say something like that doesn't make it true," Magolor reprimanded.

Marx scowled. "It doesn't matter. I thought this would be useful to you. If I can control people, won't that be better for getting back the Crown?"

Magolor hummed and prodded the possessed girl while he mulled over that. "Where did you find her?"

"It was murder. I had to get her from the nearby village. You know how hard it is to get someone alone? And at first I thought I messed it up again, so there was this awful moment where I thought she got free."

"You need more practice?"

He nodded.

Magolor tugged on his scarf, mouth dry. This… this could be a gift. But a mindless servant doing their bidding…. Of course it would take work; he had no way of knowing just how thin Marx's control was at the moment but….

"I can get you more," Magolor resolved, striking his palm with his fist. "I'll get you as many as you need! This is perfect!"

That night, Magolor slept not a wink. Instead, he slunk off to the bowels of the Lor Starcutter and spent hours perfecting both a detector and a defuser for magic. He could not necessarily perform magic. But he could protect himself from it. Just in case. The Lor seemed happy to comply.

Just in case.


	16. Chapter 16

After Marx left, Kirby stopped trying to change himself back. No, he didn't want to look like Marx. The problem was, he didn't think he wanted to look like himself either.

Instead he leaned hypnotically towards the mirror. Eyes that were his and yet not his marveled over every aspect of his new countenance.

How well did he need to know the person he was changing into, in order to assume their appearance? Could he do it, even if he didn't know exactly what they looked like? Could he do it, even if his memory of them was becoming foggy?

_It's only been about a week._

_Only a week?_

It seemed like so much longer. Kirby closed his eyes. Pain scrawled across his skin again, spreading out from his heart and into his veins. This time expecting it, he dug his nails into his palms and made no sound.

His eyes opened. They were pure yellowgold. His hair was a deep black, knotted at the nape of his neck. Kirby wanted to inspect every inch of his new outfit – dark blue, silky, adorned by black and gold, equipped with a flowing cape – but the moment he met his mirror's gaze, he froze.

He leaned in so close that his breath fogged up the glass. Still he stared. He'd never seen Meta Knight's face beneath his mask. The face Kirby wore now; it wasn't his own, nor was it Marx's, but he doubted that it was Meta Knight's either. It was more like… This was the face that Kirby once imagined Meta Knight might wear. Might have worn. High cheekbones, sharp jaw, narrow gleaming eyes, thin lips.

It was like finally meeting someone you'd known a long time, but never seen. It was the face that he'd unconsciously pictured beneath the mask all these years.

Kirby's breath caught in his throat. Trembling fingers touched the glass. If not for the fear and tension inherent in every line of his body, Kirby would fain have believed that this was Meta Knight himself, in the flesh.

But it wasn't.

It never would be.

He was resurrecting the image but nothing more.

_My name is Meta Knight and I… I demand you answer!_

This time he took appearance; before he had taken name – and the Earl had seen right through his shoddy lies. Shame roiled through his veins. Who was he to wear this countenance, to wish for something other than his own?

Shuddering, Kirby staggered away from the mirror. Without meeting his reflected eye, he let the pain creep over his skin again and replace the mask with his true self. Dejected,

he slunk towards his room, maybe to rest, more likely to pull Galaxia from under his bed and cradle it in his hands again, like his one final tether to its wielder. That's what he meant to do, at least, but in passing the control deck, fevered whispers reached his ears and he paused.

Their voices were lowered, cautious, suspicious. Kirby paused. Then, making an instant decision, he placed his ear against the doorway.

"… learning these things!" came Magolor's voice, raising in an anger unnatural for him.

"It's not gonna hurt," Marx whined back. "I kept it a secret for like two years Mags, c'mon. It's already too late to make a difference."

"You can't know that. We have no idea what his learning curve for this is. For all you know, he doesn't need that much time."

"You're overreacting."

Magolor lowered his voice, "No…. wouldn't have… risk."

Marx whined something too low to be picked up.

"Not like this," retorted Magolor, "you're treading … pull the plug on this before it gets worse."

"It's _not_ getting worse. Everything is … planned…. Under control."

"No," Magolor retorted, louder now, "when you are calling him adorable and letting him take your appearance – that is not under control. What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing is wrong with me! I'm Marx. I'm me."

For several long seconds, their argument descended into indistinguishable tones. No matter how hard Kirby strained to hear, he caught only sibilant hissing and sharp lashes of words that had no meaning without context. At last Marx outburst with -

"I'm not _messing with things."_

"You're messing things up now that we're so close –" More intelligible muttering. Kirby gritted his teeth in annoyance: hearing only parts of this was torture.

"Just consider it," Marx hissed back, and his stomping feet were heard coming closer. Kirby yelped and skittered away from the door, but too late – Marx threw it open and then there he was, framed in all his anger.

"I wasn't listening," Kirby stumbled to say.

"Oh, shut up," snarled Marx.

"H-hey!" Magolor scurried into view. "D-don't speak that way to him, Maruku, he might, yknow-"

Marx jutted his chin up. "I'll speak to him however I want."

"Him is right here," Kirby muttered.

"Anyway, Little Kay," Marx said, narrowing his eyes. "I didn't know you were prone to dropping those eaves."

Too quickly, "I wasn't eavesdropping."

"Don't be ridiculous. It's about time you learned how to really get information."

"You don't think he heard anything?" muttered Magolor.

"No worries, Mags. I doubt he heard anything useful. He's not good for much of anything, are you, Kay?"

Something hot burned in Kirby's chest, and he shocked himself with a strong urge to lash back. He felt that current of his newfound power bubbling under the surface, and he cringed violently. No. He wasn't going to resort to violence to try to prove something. He wasn't going to use any weird ability of his for a purpose like that.

"Right," said Magolor, tugging at his scarf. He turned to Kirby with a nervous, obliging expression in his eyes. Somehow he wore such a look with a unique creepiness. "By the by, Kirby; if um, you don't mind me saying, you and Marx seem to share the same hygiene problems. I thought we might address that now that you're on the Lor Starcutter!"

"I don't share…" Kirby trailed off, recalling his haggard reflection from the mirror. Lank blonde hair reaching almost to his shoulders, sunken eyes. Clothes that he'd worn on that initial flight from Dreamland.

It was just… the longer he'd spent alone with Marx, the less necessary hygiene had seemed. Kirby scrunched up his nose. Since when had he allowed Marx's habits to become his own? He was disgusting.

"You see what I mean," Magolor said, nodding. "At any rate, we need to fix you two up! My ship, my rules, and you both reek. Before we leave Nashira, why don't we stop by and pick up some clothes from the nearby city?"

"Heh." A slow grin curled up Marx's cheeks; the first evidence of some positivity, albeit of the sick sort. "Much as I'd love a visit to that city again, they might kill dear Kay or I if either of us step foot in there again."

"Huh?" Magolor's yellow eyes flicked to Marx's with sudden interest. Teasingly, "and you wouldn't have done something unsavory to cause that, would you have?"

Marx leapt gladly at the approval, "Oh, nothing too terrible…"

"You have to share now," pleaded Magolor.

"Nah, nah," Marx waved his hand dismissively, "It was only a small thing. Just a single murder. Not like some of the things you've seen me do."

"Public?" quipped Magolor.

"Naturally," answered Marx.

"You did always like to make a scene."

"It was hardly my fault, hehehe. Dumb guard shouldn't have gotten in my way."

Kirby, meanwhile, was staring in horror between the two of them as they bantered back and forth with such unseemly glee. "He has a wife and kids…" Kirby cut in loudly.

He received utterly blank looks in return. Of course. The guiltless duo.

"Never mind," Kirby muttered, wanting to vomit.

"It was nice, though," sighed Marx, turning away from Kirby. "Y'know, I'll have to regale you with my escape-from-jail story sometime as well. Oh, it was epic."

Magolor responded warmly, but Kirby scrunched up his nose. Nothing about Marx's escape from jail was epic. Hell, Marx had spent most of the time terrified out of his wits. No doubt the jester would come up with some elaborate lie that retold the story to paint himself as a hero or something.

"Plenty of time for that later, though," Magolor said cheerfully. "For now maybe we should work on getting you two presentable? The Lor is even getting picky about it!"

Thus, the afternoon was primarily spent with Magolor fussing over them both and ignoring any of their protests that they were perfectly fine handling themselves. Granted, while Kirby knew he could take care of himself, he wasn't so sure that Marx could.

Magolor insisted on a shower for Marx, pointed out that the jester hadn't taken one the entire time he'd been on the Lor Starcutter.

"I was laying unconscious on a surgery table for most of that time," Marx had retorted heatedly.

When the argument escalated, Marx discovered his inner child by deciding to physically run away from Magolor, as if that would fix anything. He ended up crashing into a kitchen chair and whimpered on the floor while Magolor re-checked all the stiches. Kirby questioned his life choices.

Finally resigned, Marx wandered into the shower with the promise that Magolor would redress and re-bandage each wound afterwards. In the interim, Kirby experienced the most awkward haircut of his life, given to him by a very nervous and twitchy Magolor. The Halcandran scattered the event with little useless bits of information that were quickly forgotten: Kirby, meanwhile, had several surreal episodes where he wondered if everything around him was actually real – AKA: was he really getting a haircut from an alien from another dimension who was best friends with his psychopathic almost-boyfriend?

The end result turned out all right, though, as Magolor hadn't been too clumsy with the scissors. He managed to smooth out any choppiness that had grown in, and shortened Kirby's hair from roughly shoulder-length to just below his ears.

Kirby wasn't prone to vanity, but he still couldn't stop looking in the mirror or combing his fingers through his hair just to remind himself that it had been cut. The blonde color looked much cleaner, and it seemed like some reminder or some sign that not everything was falling apart.

"You don't think Marx is trying to drown himself in the shower?" Magolor said worriedly, after a half hour of the jester gone from sight.

"I think it's something with new showers," Kirby admitted. "He did this in Dreamland, too."

"Hmm…" Magolor busied himself with tapping at the Lor's rainbow keyboard. Kirby couldn't tell if he was actually working or just keeping up the appearance of busy-ness in order to avoid speaking to him. Foreign letters marched across the screen – at first Kirby watched them in the vain hope of interpreting something about them, but he didn't recognize the alphabet itself, much less so what the words might mean.

"You don't think Marx is just gonna put on the same outfit again?" Kirby said.

"What, him? Of course he will! But I'm way too busy to get clothes today, and he'll at least be cleaner." Magolor shook his head with a smile. "He's picky about what he wears. Ever tried to take his hat?"

"Um.. no." That sounded like a generally bad idea overall.

"Don't do it. He flips. No idea why he's so attached to it."

"You took it before?"

"Sure! As a joke. But man, you don't want to piss him off. Actually…" Magolor rubbed his head and glanced sideways at Kirby. "I wouldn't want to piss off you or Marx. That's why you guys are so different than me. There isn't anything at all courageous or intimidating about me. If things go south, I'll hide behind the closest thing available. But you and Marx – you just fight. You go for it."

"I…" _don't. I don't fight._

Reading his expression, Magolor chuckled. "I think you do it in subtle ways, Kirbs. Most of the time. But you aren't afraid to be brave about it if you have to. You got between Meta Knight and Marx – that was pretty impressive."

Kirby felt sick. Maybe there was some truth in Magolor's words, but he didn't want to be praised for something he'd failed at doing anyway.

When Marx emerged from the shower another half hour later, he proudly marched around the Lor Starcutter wearing – amazingly enough – clean new clothes that he'd found in Magolor's closet. He wore a scarf not unlike Magolor's, although the cinch around it was purple rather than blue. A red shawl-like cloth was draped over his shoulders and swished at his feet with purple fringing; beneath that, he wore loose purple pants not unlike the kind he had worn previously.

Although he was initially ecstatic about his find, he ditched the shawl and scarf in favor of a simple magenta shirt halfway through the day, on account of the fact he kept tripping over the fringes. Magolor seemed relieved, but otherwise avoided both Kirby and Marx in order to type away at the Lor's rainbow keyboard.

Kirby, meanwhile, spent the afternoon sitting atop the Lor and gazing out at the roiling desert sands. The broken remnants of the Halberd were already being buried by new, ever-shifting dunes. Kirby realized with a heavy heart that a day, not far in the future, would come where the sands entirely buried any hint of the once great ship.

 

Late that night, Kirby was curled close to Marx in the darkness of the Lor. He felt like he was hiding. Not like from Meta Knight's death, not from the fear of learning more about his power, not from anything like that. He was hiding from the Lor itself – its vast emptiness. The Halberd had always been empty, of course. But it had seemed so much… so much closer. So much dimmer, warmer, always humming with its engine-rhythm. The Lor made no sound. It was pale and chilly and silent. That is what Kirby hid from, when he held Marx's shirt and shivered and could not sleep.

"You're so clingy," muttered Marx, carding his fingers through Kirby's shortened hair.

"There's nothing else to cling to," Kirby said without thinking.

"Is that so?" A soft, approving laugh.

Kirby thought of the golden blade, hidden beneath the bed, and could not decide whether to hold tighter or to get away. "I've been thinking," he murmured softly, "It wasn't really a real name, was it? Meta Knight… doesn't it sound more like a title?"

"It doesn't mean anything."

"Do you think he decided to call himself that?"

"Of course not," scowled Marx, unhappy with the whole discussion. "Someone else named him. Someone in that whole dumb war."

"What?"

Marx shrugged. "Let's talk about something else."

"Marx…" Kirby rolled over onto Marx and stared seriously at him. "Do you think it's a title? Like something someone else could pick up?"

"You're kidding."

Kirby shook his head.

Marx threw back his head and laughed. "Oh, Kirby. You could never be like him. You're weak. You're so much weaker than he ever was. But – very adorable thought."

"I could become stronger."

Marx's laugh cut off. His eyes lowered to study Kirby's. "Do you wanna be like him, Kay? Do you wanna be cold, and distant, and secretive?" He sat up and forced Kirby off him. "Look, Kirby. You're nothing like him. You're better off forgetting him."

"Yeah, but I actually cared about him."

"And you actually care about me, and I'm still alive."

"It's different."

Marx shrugged.

"I never slept with Meta Knight like this."

"Ew. That's dirty," Marx grinned lewdly.

"I didn't mean like that!" Kirby said, flushing. "We were just never…"

"I get what you mean. The Meta Knight isn't a very close person, is he? … Was he?"

"It's like…" Kirby said slowly. "I always sort of wished he had a warmer personality. That he was more approachable or something. I loved him because he took care of me, even if he wasn't good at it. I loved him because it seemed like he always had his reasons. He was confident, certain. He was like a father. He seemed to always do right."

"And you didn't?" Chuckling, Marx brushed back Kirby's hair. "Come on, Kay. Give yourself some credit. When I met you, you were pristine. I don't think your mind even knew sin, or pain."

Kirby closed his eyes. "It's hard to remember that."

"Mmm."

"I…." Kirby swallowed. "I didn't miss him."

"Huh?"

"When we left Dreamland. I don't think I missed him."

"Aw, how terrible of you."

"I do now, though."

Marx sighed. "Kay, you're speaking in circles. Don't you know you're better off when you don't speak at all?"

Kirby surprised himself by giving a wry smile. "You'd be bored then."

Marx tapped his lips. "Mmm, I guess I would be."

"Marx, where are we going?"

There was a long silence. Any amusement instantly vanished from Marx's face, and he turned his back. Kirby didn't expect him to answer. He never did, anyway. This whole ruse, about finding out Kirby's past… it was really only that, wasn't it? A ruse. He'd learned nothing.

Then, flatly, "we're gonna go see Zero Two."

"Zero Two?"

"One and only…"

"I thought you said…"

"He stole something from Magolor. We need to get it back. Then everything will be better."

Kirby chewed his lip. "…Is that why you guys were arguing today? You didn't want to go?"

"We were arguing about how to go," lied Marx fluidly.

"… Why do you have to help Magolor?"

"You wouldn't understand, Kirby; all your friends are dead."

There was a long, long silence. It took Kirby several minutes to calm himself down to coherency, and then several more to select a subject equally dangerous, but equally important to him. "People in Dreamland weren't magic," Kirby said carefully. "I don't think most people are. So it seems like, if I am…" it had to imply something.

"That shouldn't be surprising," Marx drawled, disguising his relief at the change in topic, "the only people you know well from the outside is me, Magolor, and Meta Knight. I'm magic, Magolor should be, and Meta Knight… well, he's dead, so that doesn't matter anymore. But he was too, for the most part. If you're from the 'outside', you should be too."

"He was?"

"Guess he kept it from you," sniggered Marx. "We should have taken his cape, y'know. I wonder if it's possible to even take off him. But man, if we could… I wouldn't mind wings, y'know."

Dreamland burning, the flap of wings, Meta Knight pursuing them from the air with the bat-like appendages arced around him. Kirby shuddered. He'd forgotten that, somehow. Then again, in the fight against Marx, he'd shown them for a few moments. Why, in over a year, had Kirby never asked him once about those wings?

At this point, Kirby abruptly noticed that Marx had turned again and coiled around him. Bony fingers clenched in his shirt and the jester nuzzled closer while inhaling deeply.

"What are you doing?" Kirby squirmed away.

"You smell different when you're afraid."

Ew. What. "Marx," Kirby reprimanded carefully, "There's plenty of people I met that I didn't think were magic. Earl Kavika, Kha-" he cut off. "Well, there's a lot. So why am I different?"

Marx scowled. "I don't know why you're so determined to learn."

"Every kid in Dreamland knew who their mother and father was, Marx. I never did. I want to know that. I want to know where I'm from, and why. If anything has ever meant anything, or if all of this is just..."

But Marx had tired of the interrogation. A hand pinned him to the mattress; Marx loomed over him with glinting eyes. "Everyone is born, or made-"

"Made?"

"- Then everyone dies, usually in some hilarious tragic way. It doesn't matter who births us, or who makes us. I can't even believe that you still care. Meta Knight's dead, Kirby. Wasn't he the last thing attaching you to Dreamland? Wasn't he the last stupid reminder of your stupid desire to find out who you are?"

"Is… that why you killed him?"

"Of course not. He was obnoxious."

"Marx…" Kirby struggled to sit up, because he figured if he was gonna make an argument, he better do it on level ground. Upon failure, he continued from his current position, "Meta Knight wasn't the last thing tying me to Dreaml-"

"Then what is?" Marx spat, "so I can kill it too?"

"No _person_ ," Kirby growled, "it's _me._ Myself. It's all the memories I've had from being there. No, I can't just go back and pretend none of this happened – I haven't been able to do that for a long time. But I haven't forgotten who I was, and I haven't forgotten the reason you said we went on this trip. You said it was all for me. You lied to me."

Marx's hand clenched over his shoulder, then slowly relaxed. His face was hidden in shadow. "All I do is lie, little Kay. Why do you expect any different?"

"You can lie to me. I don't have any power to stop you."

"That's right," Marx said.

"But there isn't anyone left for you to kill, unless you want to kill me. Because I've found out, that even without all the people I cared about, I still want to know who I am. Maybe I want to even more now. There has to be something. All of this bloodshed, it has to be for some reason. If Meta Knight died wanting me to know something, then I need to learn what that something it is. It can't have all been futile."

"Can't… must be… should be…" Marx shook his head. "You want some great destiny. You want some great purpose. You don't need it to justify or forgive the deaths, but you need it because it would at least make them have some meaning, some ultimate purpose. What would you do, Kirby, if this whole journey has just been meaningless circles? If there is no fate, no destiny. If you're a sad lonely teenager who sold his life and the lives of his friends for _this?"_

Every muscle in his body went lax; Kirby closed his eyes. Exhaustion weighed heavily on his shoulders. He barely mustered the next few words, "then that's what it is. And at least I'd know." He let out a rattling sigh. "I'm here, Marx. I'm helpless, you have me. Any power you wanted to achieve over me, you got. So… please… what more can you possible want from me? Why… can't you just… tell me…?" His voice tapered off into a hoarse whine.

"Hng."

"Marx?" Opening his eyes, Kirby was shocked to find Marx's irises blown wide with raw vulnerability.

"I want to," he whispered, and it was the most sane, most human thing Kirby remembered him ever uttering.

"Then tell me," Kirby pleaded, their breath mixing in the short space between them. "What is all of this for?"

Marx's eyes darted to the side, his voice weak and halting, "It's... We're.." his breath caught. Kirby waited, half hoping that maybe maybe finally there was some change for good here – in turn, Marx hesitated at knifepoint, in one moment wanting both to move closer and another to skitter away.

The latter persuasion won: with a strangled squeak, Marx was scrambling off the bed and baring his fangs, "you're so sentimental, Kirby. Like I'd ever tell you anything."

He whirled around and stalked out of the room, slammed the door behind him. Sighing, Kirby curled on his side. It was to be expected, really. That sort of behavior was always to be expected with Marx. Still, it'd be nice if, for once, the jester would surprise him in a good way.

 

"… a fair point," the Halcandran was conversing genially with his ship, "Especially if you take that into account, it's definitely high time for some alterations in the political structure-"

"What boring things are you discussing with the Lor now?" grumbled Marx, leaning up against the control board.

"Hey, careful!" Magolor shooed him away from the board. "Lor here was telling me about-"

"Lost interest."

Magolor sighed and shook his head. "Maruku, you're a great guy, but your lack of interest in government is tragic."

"That's what you're here for!"

Magolor brightened instantly. "Very true! Someone on this ship has to get it right."

"That's why you get to rule the universe, and I just get to, yknow –" Marx wiggled his fingers, "wreak havoc and all sorts of delightful things."

"Any universe run by you would tear itself apart," Magolor said flatly.

Marx smiled wistfully. "Wouldn't it be beautiful?"

Magolor laughed. "If you look at it a certain way, maybe it would be!"

"Does the Lor still share your ideals about ruling, then?" Marx said, unable to resist touching the rainbow control board again, despite Magolor's watchful gaze. "Poke poke poke."

"Down to the letter. Us two don't change too much! Y'know, we're pretty constant." An unspoken threat hovered there.

"I haven't changed either," Marx said quickly.

Magolor was silent.

"I haven't," he insisted, turning abruptly.

"Not all change is bad," Magolor remarked ambiguously.

"But it's not always good either, is it?"

"Oh, Marx – in the realm of moral spectrum, don't you and I still agree that bad and good don't mean much?"

A reassured smirk. "Of course, Mags. It's a matter of perspective."

"Although, I gotta say - your perspective of Kirby is pretty interesting."

A beat, then, "What?"

"Maruku," sighed Magolor, shaking his head with a knowing smile hidden behind his scarf.

"What?"

Softly, "you're attached to him. First you give up your food, then you want to teach him his powers, and this morning you were bargaining to change the plan we already perfected… You even share his bed. It's so unlike you." Magolor shook his head sadly, "I was gone too long."

Marx froze, spidery fingers petrified over the control board. A low, nervous laugh. "Mags…"

Sweetly, "it's okay, Maruku. You did always want someone, didn't you?"

"B-But this is _Kirby,_ you're kidding me, I can't…." Marx couldn't take his eyes off Magolor. "You're kidding. There's no way I'd… not _him."_

Magolor lifted his palms up cordially. "Take a breather, Marx. It's not going to be a problem, I'm sure. I know my best friend better than anyone else, and I know you won't make any mistakes."

"But we're gonna have to…"

Magolor smiled obligingly. "I'm sure you can figure out your feelings before then."

Marx swallowed hard. Then, he let out a breathy laugh. "R-right…" And if his eyes looked terrified, Magolor pretended not to notice; if his body trembled uncontrollably, Magolor simply didn't watch. If his voice wavered, Magolor pretend not to hear. "Then… about the changes I suggested?"

"No changes."

"Right."

"Don't look so nervous! You'll be able to sort it all out soon…. Won't you, Maruku?"

There was a long silence. When Marx next spoke his voice was entirely level, entirely emotionless. "When you go to town tomorrow…"

"Yes?"

"Find a girl named Khayla. She's someone Kirby likes. I'll prove I'm not attached to him."


	17. Chapter 17

When Kirby woke up the next morning, Marx was not in his bed. Neither was he in the kitchen. In fact, Kirby couldn't find him. He couldn't find Magolor, either. If one or the other was missing, it wouldn't be too much of a cause for concern. But if both were missing…

Well, it made a person nervous. Kirby uncertainly nibbled some bread for breakfast, and then decided he was altogether too uncomfortable to ignore this new development.

He roamed the halls, not finding anything as he wound deeper into the ship, until at last he caught Marx's and Magolor's voices rising up from a room further ahead.

Kirby hesitated. Maybe he shouldn't eavesdrop. They hadn't gotten very mad at him before for doing it that first time, but that still didn't make it right.

Marx's words rang in his ears, _It's about time you learned how to really get information._

Sighing, Kirby turned away. No matter his interest. It was wrong to-

Then he paused.

Because he was damn certain he'd heard a voice that wasn't Magolor's or Marx's. And that voice sounded awfully familiar.

There was a sharp striking sound, a cry.

That's all it took to send Kirby bolting back down the hallway. He threw open door after door, all the rooms empty, until finally he stumbled into a large cavern of a room – this time occupied.

Marx was at the far corner. Magolor had his back to Kirby, and was speaking in low, persuasive tones. "C'mon, Marx. You've gotta be hungry. I know you are." The Halcandran was pinning someone's arms behind their back; Kirby hesitantly leaned in for a better view. It was Khayla.

His heart dropped. He didn't know what was going on. But he didn't have to be a genius to know it wasn't good.

He stepped through the threshold. "What are you guys doing here?"

"Nhfhaa!" Magolor skittered to the side, golden irises blown wide. "O-oh! Kirbs… what a surprise."

"K-Kirby?" Khayla uttered half in disbelief.

"Marx, what's going on?" Kirby veered his gaze to meet Marx's – but the jester wasn't looking at him. His eyes were fixed on Khayla, and there was a sickening interest there, a deep-rooted hunger.

"No no nonnono…" Kirby backed up a step. "This is not… you're not…"

Magolor flinched. "Don't be upset, Kirby. We didn't want you to find out…"

Kirby rounded on the Halcandran. "You're trying to get him to hurt people again. To – to kill people and–" Kirby gagged, sickened by the mere thought.

"It's for his own good, Kirby."

"Why would you do this? You know Marx doesn't – he doesn't…"

"I'm sorry," Magolor cringed, avoiding Kirby's eyes. "Please don't attack me. I didn't mean to upset you. I didn't – it wasn't my fault. Marx asked me to."

Kirby shook his head firmly. "No. No, Marx wouldn't do that, he wouldn't _ask_ that. We have a compromise, I _told_ you that."

A short, derisive laugh erupted from the corner. "Little Kay, did you honestly expect me to hold to your stupid compromise?"

Kirby's blood froze in his veins. This couldn't be happening. This could not be happening. Not again. The last final only strand of some redemption in Marx and he was throwing it away. "Y-you can't…."

"Magolor's right. I haven't been eating properly. What better way to fix it than this? Khayla pissed me off from the start. Might as well kill two birds with one stone, as they say."

"No…" Kirby's voice came out as a hoarse whine. "You can't hurt her."

"No?" Marx snorted. "You don't have any say in this."

"You promised me."

"Hah, dumb Kay. I only said that to get you to like me." Marx didn't look at him once. His eyes would not leave Khayla, his very stance bled predator. Kirby could see the tense hunger racing in his blood and Magolor, silent and rapt, could as well.

"Kirby?" Khayla whispered again. She didn't know exactly what was happening, but she knew enough to see the delicate glass upon which everyone in the room stood.

Kirby's nails dug into his palms. "You didn't just say it," he ground out lowly. "You..." he repeated, daring a step closer - Marx's eyes flicked to him for the barest moment, "you did not just say it to make me like you." He trembled, the words trembled with him, "Marx, you swore to me. You swore to me and I kept my side of the deal and you - _you kept your side._ For almost two years. Th-this compromise we made - you've listened to it. It's been the only damn proof that you're..." god, now he was crying. His nerves were taunt and twitching with terror, his muscles felt weak, his mind broken, and he was crying, and he could lose Khayla, and it was all going to happen all over again but damnit _Marxhadpromisedandhehadn'tlied he. hadn't. lied._ So why now?

"Kirbster," Magolor bit out, and it was not nice, "you're a great guy, but please understand."

A single heartbeat. Then, realization. Slowly, "it's you."

Magolor eyed Kirby fearfully, but addressed Marx, "if you have something to prove, you uh, you might want to speed it along here."

"It's _you,_ " Kirby repeated loudly, voice breaking in the middle.

Magolor winced. "Hey, take it easy, Kirbster... I'm just trying to make sure your ah... well, your Marx gets his proper care and all. Marx...? Hurry?"

Kirby rasped his teeth together until electric pain raked through his jaw. Fists furled, joints popped, an eye twitched. You," he ground out like gravel, "it's all because of you. You want to drag him to see Zero Two, you drive him to commit these awful crimes, you..." And then it hit him. Dawning realization. "You set him against Meta Knight. You egged him on. You brought Meta Knight here."

The statement left him gasping. To scream, to cry, to strike, Kirby didn't know; but he felt like the strings of an instrument tugged tighter, tighter, tighter, and something had to give because his body trembled and his teeth chattered and his muscles clenched with the shivering shuddering taunt knot of pressure that had to give or explode.

"h-hey, whoa there Kirby..." Magolor laughed nervously and he was definitely cringing now, shrinking away, loosening his grip -

then, given the chance, Khayla slammed her elbow mercilessly into Magolor's side.

While she twisted free, something in Kirby snapped.

A bloodcurding scream unleashed itself from his throat; the sparking power leapt from his flesh, then suddenly Magolor was not doubled over in pain but dangling ominously a foot off the floor, his scarf wrapped around his throat by a spectral force. Kirby commanded it tighter, tighter, pouring his tension into the knot.

Magolor wasn't breathing, couldn't breathe, his nails scraping against his throat as if to tear his flesh away.

Kirby only saw him through a blurred glass of tears, but what he saw was enough to keep throttling him.

 _Displaced,_ he thought absently. On some level he knew Magolor wasn't all to blame; on some level he knew what he was doing was wrong. That this was unleashing two years worth of pain on the first vulnerable thing that could falsely take the blame for Marx's actions, for Kirby's own repeating failures, for Meta Knight's infuriating secret-silence, taken to the grave.

But the mere thought of any one of those mistakes was sufficient fuel.

Every one of those mistakes tightened the knot around Magolor's throat.

Then – suddenly - a lurch –

The floor slammed against the back of his head, stars flared in his vision, then fangs, inches from his eyes, and an uttered hiss above him, " _how dare you-?!"_

And Marx was hurting him, nails popping through flesh in a vice-grip.

"You care about me!" screamed Kirby blindly; he prayed to anything that would listen that he was right, because if he was wrong, then he was dead. "You kept our compromise, and it was the one - only - only redeemable thing about you disgusting –"

"Maybe you should stop thinking so good of me!" Marx screamed back. "What does it take, Kirby? How much do I have to destroy before you stop trusting me!"

"I _don't_ trust you! I don't trust you all! You're an awful person!"

Marx sat back onto his hips with a vicious grin. "That's right, Kirby. And that's why I'll kill her."

"No, you won't!" Without conscious thought, Kirby's power lashed out again – it wrenched Marx off him and sent him sprawling to the floor. The resulting unholy glare that Marx shot at him sent fear wracking through his body. He began to gasp for air, hyperventilating. He was going to die. Marx was going to kill him.

Kirby had never been more certain of anything in his life.

"Stupid Kay. You think you can control me with your abilities? I have my own!" Marx laughed and his four-fingered hand swiped through the air like a blade. Two vines, riddled with silver thorns, burst from the floor and snared around Kirby's ankles.

The thorns sank into his skin and pinned his legs to the floor.

With a pained howl, Kirby reached down to untangle himself; in his blind fear, he cut his hands up with the leaden thorn tips.

"I'll do what I want," Marx continued, stalking closer. "You don't have any power to stop me."

"Ng." Kirby threw his head back against the floor and clawed at the vines working their way around his torso. "Yes, I do, Marx! We had a deal!"

"And now I'm going to break it!" Purple eyes bubbling with madness, hands splayed at his side, Marx laughed.

"You don't even want to!"

"I have to!" Darting in, Marx's hands clenched around Kirby's throat; his eyes were all spitfire and rage. "I don't have a fucking choice, Kay!"

"Why not!?"

"The plan… I can't be attached to you."

"Hng," Kirby writhed. "Why? What is the plan? Why can you not be attached to me?"

"Because," and there were his fangs again, way way to close to Kirby's eyes, "you don't make it to the end of the story, little Kay. Zero Two is gonna kill you. That's what we have planned. That's gonna be it for you, little Kay, and I can't be attached because Magolor is supposed to make it all okay a happy ending for me and if I care about you and you die I don't haha... I don't know how that can be a happy ending now, do you?"

"I... I die?"

"Kaput," Marx said. And then all the sudden the predator was gone. His expression crumbled. His purple eyes were not menacing, not aggressive, but afraid. Wide. _Terrified._ Kirby saw this for only the barest moment before Marx pressed his face into his chest and clung to his shirt like a child. The vines retreated and everything got very still.

_This doesn't change what he's done._

It didn't. It didn't change the past. But it could change the future. Kirby hardly dared to move. Everything ached. His throat from screaming, his ankles from the silver thorns, his back from landing so harshly. But this…. This was a lull in all the hurt. His own breathing slowed, and evened out. His mind felt oddly numb. It perused over the events in the last minutes, but could barely comprehend them. It was all viewed with some level of startled disbelief.

This was it, Kirby realized. He really couldn't take more of this stress. More of this fear. He was starting to get detached from it, to think that it was surreal and impossible.

He tilted his head down, and his lips just brushed the top of Marx's hat. Marx, for his part, had buried his face in Kirby's shirt. Had he really just attacked Magolor? Had he actually protected Khayla?

_Zero Two is gonna kill you. That's what we have planned._

Kirby exhaled slowly. Now he knew, at least. He couldn't process it at the moment. Couldn't even think of it. But now he knew.

The creak of wood reminded Kirby that they were not alone; he tilted his gaze up from the floor and saw Khayla staring at him, her fists lowered, her eyes wide.

Oh. She….

She was essentially watching him welcome the very same person that moments ago had been contemplating attacking her.

And his heart shriveled because he realized how awful this looked.

"Khayla," he uttered, more of a plea than a name.

She shook her head, although Kirby hadn't asked anything.

There was no way she could understand. No way Kirby could explain. He went limp and closed his eyes. It couldn't be helped. At least she was alive, and that mattered more than her opinion of him.

A few seconds passed, and then there was shifting from the other side of the room. Magolor.

Khayla backed up a few steps; she no doubt was at the ready again. Prepared to fight.

"Magolor?" Kirby called out tentatively.

"Mh. Ow. Jeez…. Kirbster, that hurt…. Ow."

Ah. There was a bit of guilt. "I'm sorry. Magolor… I'm not letting Marx hurt anyone. Not again." Granted, Marx wasn't exactly looking very terrifying at the moment. Quite the opposite, actually, with his body all coiled up over Kirby, and his face ducked and hidden, and his shoulders quivering with emotion.

Still, Marx was nothing if not capricious. Kirby figured he could keep Marx here, so long as Magolor didn't try to interfere and egg him on again.

"I see." Magolor said. Shifting fabric. "Well, um. You two sure are a lot closer than I even thought! I don't know what you did to him."

"I'm not letting him hurt anyone," Kirby repeated, firmly. It was pretty awkward giving orders like this, especially when he was currently pinned to the floor. But it had to be said. He had to make sure the Halcandran understood.

"H-hey, easy Kirby…." Magolor's voice replied. "I get now that this shouldn't be about separating you too. Whoo-boy, if I knew this was going to happen… but…" A low cough. "I get now that you shouldn't… I won't come between you."

"This is all happy-go-lucky and all," came Khayla's voice, "but I really would like to get home."

"Wait," Kirby said, and squirmed underneath Marx. "I want to talk with you before you go."

Khayla's voice was barely a hiss, "and what makes you think I want to talk to you, Kirby?"

Oh.

It…

That made sense.

As far as Khayla saw this, she'd been kidnapped by some psychopath who dragged her here to be killed and then eaten for good measure. Then Kirby comes in, fights her captors, only to end up curled on the floor with one of them, and casually conversing with the other.

There was no way Khayla would ever want to see him or speak to him again.

"Please," Kirby whispered, "let me explain." Then, to Marx, "get up. C'mon, I need to talk to Khayla."

Marx had the responsiveness of a cement block and seemed to weigh just about the same too.

"C'mon Marx…." Kirby poked his shoulder.

"Am I allowed to leave? Or do you have some other disgusting, horrible scheme for me?" Khayla's words are sharp, but her tone is wavering. Her terror made Kirby cringe.

"Khayla, please… wait. Just…. Marx, please get off." Oh jeez. Now Marx had tilted his head up, and was effectively nibbling at Kirby's throat. Of all the times to be affectionate…. "Marx!"

The jester snorted. "Fh. Now that the proverbial cat is out of the bag, I'm pretty screwed, I guess. I can't pretend I hate you, yayy." His eyes darkened. "I'm not fucking letting Zero Two hurt you because only I can do that."

Kirby let out a shaky exhale. "R-right. Thank you, Marx… for not hurting Khayla. But please, I need to get up."

With a particularly insistent shove, Marx grumbled and finally wandered over to Magolor.

Kirby got to his feet, though he cringed at the stinging laced around his ankles. Everyone in this group seemed to get hurt way too much. "I'm taking Khayla back," Kirby said firmly, but eyed Magolor and Marx just to be sure. If they wanted to oppose him still, then they likely were in full power to do so.

Kirby knew he had abilities, but the thought of using them again, of having his life and everyone else's in danger again… well, it wasn't something he wanted repeated.

Magolor was massaging his throat. "Might as well," he sighed. "Boy, I messed up with this one."

"Go on," Marx grumbled. "Just don't take forever."

Nodding gratefully, Kirby backed toward the hallway. "Khayla?"

She did not move; her eyes were bright with suspicion.

"P-please," Kirby whispered. "I promise. I'm not going to hurt you."

She had far too much fear to soothe Kirby's conscious, and for a moment, Kirby thought she wouldn't follow him. That she'd distrust him so greatly as to remain with Magolor and Marx before him. Then her chin lowered, and she trailed after him to the exit.

They paused with the door open, and the ramp guiding out into the desert sands. Kirby avoided her eyes. What was he supposed to say in a situation like this? Never in his life had he been prepared for something like it.

Luckily, he didn't have to say anything. Khayla spoke for him, and when she did, her words were meticulously calculated. "Kirby… listen very carefully, because I'm not messing around. You, and your – your…" she struggles for a word, and settles with 'friends,' "all deserve to be behind bars. When we met in town, I…. I saw only part of who you are. And now that I've seen the other part….." she ducked her head, and went quiet.

"Please, I'm not a bad person…" Kirby uttered, because maybe if Khayla believed him, he could believe himself.

"Maybe not," consented Khayla. "But this life you lead…" she waved a hand to the hallway through which Magolor and Marx still lingered. "The company you keep… I'd like to believe good of you, Kirby, I really would like to. And… that's why I'm not going to turn you, or your friends, in. But only on one condition."

"Anything," Kirby breathed. Anything so long as Khayla didn't believe ill of him.

Khayla meets his eyes directly. "Leave Nashira. And never, ever, ever, come back. I don't want to see you ever again, Kirby."

"Oh."

"You only bring trouble. I thought I was going to die today, Kirby. And maybe that's something you experience every day. But that's not me. That life is not me. And I don't want you to bring that onto any of my family, or any of my people here."

"I…. I see." What was there to say? In just a few words, she tore him apart in a way completely unique from Marx. All the words Kirby had half-prepared faltered and died on his tongue. She would not be persuaded, towards whatever it was Kirby half hoped he might persuade her. She knew where she belonged, and she found her own private joys in the existence she lead. She was confident, kind, and perhaps remained so by keeping her skin away from fire like that of Marx's or Magolor's. She knew her limits. She was scared, but resolute.

Something in Kirby ached. He worked his tongue around words he failed to speak. I'm not like them, he wanted to say, he wanted to convince her of so many things about him.

"Kirby," she continued quietly, "thank you for the day we had together. But let me go. Now."

She asked because she remembered the power he used against Magolor, and she feared it.

It hurt.

"I'm sorry."

But she didn't forgive him. Instead, she smiled faintly. "Kirby? Don't let them hurt you for allowing me to leave. I wish you luck. I really do." And then she's gone, walking away, leaving.

Kirby watched until the desert swallowed up her billowing cloak. Even then, he lingered.

He wondered in bewilderment if he were getting used to living with Marx. Used to living with Magolor. If this had become some new way of living... or not even new. It was two years in the making. Of terror, tension. On some level Kirby was aware that something had changed this time. Because this time, he'd stopped Marx. And Magolor - he'd stopped the both of them, and that had some finality to it. Marx had acted differently toward the end. He'd finally told some truth.

But after constantly being held in the dark, constantly being afraid... Kirby wasn't even sure he believed yet that anything had changed. He wasn't sure he could believe that. Maybe it just took time.

Puzzled, Kirby wandered back; the ramp retracted and the door shut behind him. The next time he looked upon the Nashira sands, it would be as he left them for the final time.

 

"So… the initial plan…."

Kirby, Marx, and Magolor had all retired to the kitchen (Marx said the whole affair made him unfairly hungry, and he was now perched up on the counter tearing into a fresh steak). Kirby sat at the table, staring at his folded hands, and Magolor stood with his back against the sink, surveying the whole thing a little nervously.

No one made any move to answer Kirby's unspoken question, so with a sigh, he trudged on, "the initial plan was to… kill me?"

"It was a little more complex than that," Marx said shortly, burying any other words beneath a huge bite of meat.

"Wow, heh…" Magolor rubbed the back of his head. "I never expected to explain this to Kirby of the Stars, of all people."

Kirby poked his pointer fingers together. "Maybe it would be important for me to know."

"It is now," Marx said lowly, and his eyes flashed with sudden ferocity as they flicked to Magolor.

"H-hey… Marx, you know as well as I do that this whole thing was decided before we even met Kirby! It's not fair to give me that look. You were behind the whole thing too, until you…"

Marx sniggered. "'Till I got a pet."

"But…" Magolor continued thoughtfully, "I think you're both right. The old plan needs some kind of revision. I was stupid to cling to it so much, just because I thought it was perfect. I'm sure we can figure out another alternative."

"Why were you going to kill me?" Kirby whispered.

Magolor sighed and shook his head. His gold eyes looked sorrowful. "It was a mistake to think that we should. But I can explain."

He stared at the floor, as though looking at something else, far far away.

"I come from a planet that was once very beautiful. The rocks of Halcandra once yielded the finest metals, and its fire once created jewels, trinkets, tools, glass…" Magolor smiled wistfully. "We were once a strong people, united by a respect and love for the natural beauty and talent of our planet. We didn't try to corrupt it to become something else; instead, we gratefully accepted what it offered us, and preserved it in its natural state."

"Jeez," Marx muttered, "you take forever to tell stories, Magolor. Here, Kirby – in shorthand – Halcandra used to be like paradise, see? And it had a ton of people that could do magic, like me or you, and everyone was considered equal. But then a bunch of greedy assholes decided that they were better than everyone else, because their magic was much stronger. They took control of the government and made it so that magicians were considered a higher class than anyone else. Plus, they started to abuse all of Halcandran's resources, and put everyone 'inferior' to them to work. At the rate they're going, they're gonna exploit every last bit of Halcandra's resources, and then their government really will collapse. But the whole upper class of powerful wizards doesn't care. All they care about is burying their lives in riches and wealth that they get from exploiting everyone else."

"In short," Magolor said drily. "That's true. Although you're leaving out a lot of details. Like some of the punishments they inflict on non-magic people."

"That sounds awful," Kirby murmured, although he wasn't sure how this story related to himself or Zero. His mind was still reeling from everything else, and he didn't think he was in any fit position to be even thinking about whatever Magolor and Marx intended to tell him. But he was used to strain, by this point, and even thinking of requesting a few days rest prior to this revelation would feel strange.

"I was born into one of those upper class families," Magolor said quietly. "All six of my brothers, and my three sisters, possessed the same strong magic characteristic of my family."

"Nine siblings?"

"I didn't," Magolor continued. "Have that magic, I mean. I could only do small, weak spells, and I struggled to do even that."

"Which is a Big Bad No-No in the Halcandran upper class," supplied Marx.

Magolor smiled faintly. "I don't regret it. I think it was only because of my weakness that I was able to see how corrupt my family was… no, how corrupt all of Halcandra had become. The upper class, avaricious and destructive, and the lower class, submissive and obedient to a fault. For a long time, I hated everyone."

"And then he found out about the astral powers," Marx chirped.

"Marx, you're skipping ahead."

"Bah, Kirby doesn't need to hear your life story. Hey, Kay – Magolor found out that there's a bunch of objects in the universe that hold a really impressive amount of power – called astral power – that even non-magicians like him can wield! He figured that if he collected enough of these objects, and harnessed their power, then he'd be able to rule over Halcandra!"

"You're missing crucial points," Magolor complained. "I don't want to rule Halcandra just to rule. Kirby…" His eyes turned pleading. "I want to rule so that I can fix everything that has gone wrong with it. I have a dream of a future where everyone is equal again, and all the people are fair and just the way they used to be. I want my people to stop exploiting each other and Halcandra, and instead respect each other and the planet. With the astral power, I can do that."

"I…. I still don't see how this relates to Zero. Or me."

It was Marx who answered this time, "Zero Two stole one of the astral powers from Magolor – the Master Crown. Without it, Magolor can't change a thing about Halcandra."

"So you have to get it back…." Kirby said slowly. He wondered faintly if he should be worried that he'd been staring at one dent in the table for the past five minutes.

"Correct-o," Magolor replied. "But Zero-Two is the second most powerful being in the universe. You can't just walk up to the guy and ask for something like that back."

"The second most…?" Kirby mused. "If… if that's so, then why don't we ask the most powerful being in the universe to get Zero to hand it back?"

Marx started laughing, although Kirby had no idea why this was so funny. Wasn't that the most logical conclusion?

Even Magolor's eyes crinkled into a grin. "Kirby… you're right. That would make sense."

"Khehe, no, no… Kay… imagine this. What if the most powerful being in the universe, is a sworn enemy of Zero Two?"

"I guess Zero might not hand the crown over, then…"

Marx clutched his sides and bit back another laugh. "Mmyuss, Kay. Instead, Zero might try to kill this said person. But, being less powerful, Zero would die."

"Then you could take the crown," Kirby said decisively.

"Unless," Marx stressed, "The single most powerful being in the universe takes the crown himself and doesn't want to give it up. And then all the sudden, that's real bad. Because now Magolor has an even stronger enemy on his hands."

"Huh." Kirby nibbled his fingers. "I guess that's true."

Marx broke into howling laughter, and Magolor had to speak over him, "do you understand now, Kirby? Who the most powerful person in the universe is?"

Huh? Kirby toyed with the bottom of his shirt. Nothing Magolor had said would lead to him knowing the identity of that person. Was this supposed to be someone that Kirby personally knew? The most powerful person…. Kirby's eyes widened. "Meta Knight?"

This earned fresh laughter from Marx, and it was getting so loud that Magolor reeled around to face him. "Marx, this is serious! If you can't stop that, then leave the room! It's really distracting."

"Hffhehe, nah, nah, Mags… look at the poor kid. He's so confused."

"It's Meta Knight, isn't it?" Kirby said quickly, tension wrapping around his heart. "B-but… but you…"

"It's not Meta Knight," sighed Magolor.

"Then please tell me," Kirby whimpered. "I can't take this anymore. You guys knowing all this stuff I don't, always holding it out of my reach."

"I'll keep it short," Magolor promised. "Kirby, Zero Two is a nearly immortal being. He is killed, and then resurrects again hundreds of years later. This is a cycle that the universe constantly goes through…. But it's important that, whenever Zero resurrects, there is a warrior there to meet him and defeat him, to earn peace for the next few hundred years."

"Okay…"

"This warrior of the stars is destined to be the only being more powerful than Zero. The only one capable of killing him. When Marx and I learned about this, we knew that we needed to use this warrior in order to get the Master Crown. But this warrior is rumored to be pure of heart, and adverse to any being with too much power. If he defeated Zero and took the Master Crown, then there was no way he'd give it freely to Marx or I."

"I think I'm following."

"Basically," Marx interrupted, "we had no options. So Magolor came up with a plan. We would track down this super-duper crazy powerhouse warrior, and I would use my mind-trickies on him to get him to trust me! I didn't expect full mind control, nothin' like that. But enough to get him to trust me. And then, little by little, tear down his power, prevent him from refining his powers, anything. Until… we can offer him on a silver platter to Zero Two. Surprise, your greatest enemy belly-up and ready for the butcher's knife. Sound good, yeah?"

"Um…" If repulsive was synonymous with good, then sure. "But…. You… I mean… Meta Knight is already…."

"Hush. Point is, we were gonna try to offer up this warrior for Zero Two to kill, and then win Zero's favor. That way, we could backstab the guy later and steal the crown once we're buddies with him."

Kirby pursed his lips. "So you did that to Meta Knight in order to earn Zero's favor. We're flying to Zero now so you can pretend to be his friend."

"Wrong!" Marx sang. "You're convinced Meta Knight is the most powerful being in the universe, aren't you?"

"Y-yes…"

Marx looked far too excited, and Magolor far too nervous.

The Halcandran tugged at his scarf. "U-um, Kirbs, please don't be angry. This whole plan was before we met you and all."

Marx giggled. "Little Kay, you're the warrior destined to take down Zero."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's all pretend we didn't sort know this all along.


	18. Chapter 18

After fleeing Nashira, Marx, Magolor, and Kirby found refuge on a neighboring planet; Aroa. They landed the Lor Starcutter amongst sloping hills with craggy purple mountains in the distance. This was a foresty, temperate place, full of wild greenery untouched by the hands of men. Aroa was home to scattered tribes of people all with different languages and customs, who kept mostly to themselves and rarely encountered each other. Although these people holed up in small leafy shacks and made villages nestled in the trees, they were often neither seen nor heard, and an inexperienced eye would think no one lived there at all.

But here in Aroa, the Starcutter's passengers could live without too much fear of getting in more trouble with the intergalactic police, and they could each uniquely prepare for the approaching battle against Zero Two in which Kirby unwittingly found himself involved.

The three of them lived aboard the Lor Starcutter, which hid itself nicely under the canopy. Magolor spent a good portion of his time stewing over the Lor's archives (unreadable by Marx or Kirby, as neither of them could understand Halcandran). Kirby, meanwhile, had whole-heartedly thrown himself into the practicing of his latent magic. For anonymity and safety, he wandered far from the Lor Starcutter each day in order to practice. Generally, he traveled south along the base of the mountains until reaching a small hill hidden by the heavy dark green canopy – it was there, in the muggy shade, that he dedicated himself to training.

Meanwhile, Marx acted as something of a satellite between the two: overseeing and assisting Kirby, else slinking off to speak with Magolor.

The new climate demanded different clothes – both Marx and Kirby ditched the outfits they had too long worn, in favor of some clothing that Magolor retrieved from Nashira prior to fetching Khayla.

Unfortunately, these were fabrics more suited to be worn in a desert; garments designed to shield one from a hot dry land, and not an earth mild and rainy. On Nashira, they would have been perfect. On Aroa, they were poor choices.

Naturally, Marx had promptly torn his clothes apart to sew together something that suited the weather and his tastes better. From fine silk cloaks and undershirts he fashioned a deep purple overcoat with an open front. The sleeves ended in cuffs at his wrists whose design imitated the gears on Magolor's own outfits.

He would be bare-chested, if not for the swathes of bandages wrapped around his torso – which he chose to wear regularly even after the worst of his healing passed. This new outfit revealed a strange amulet – Kirby found it difficult to remember when exactly Marx had started wearing that amulet, or if he had actually been wearing it all along.

Although there was a pair of boots that went with the entire outfit, Marx often 'forget' them, and padded about barefoot instead.

Kirby believed in more practical attire, and wanted to keep his clothes in fit shape for practicing magic and sword fighting. No matter what he did, though, the clothes Magolor brought seemed too baggy and loose compared to what he was used to, and he constantly felt like he was tripping over hems, or getting his arms tangled in the sleeves, or just being too hot overall from all the layers. He started eyeing Magolor in mystification wondering how he could ever be comfortable, but Magolor wore his clothes with effortless grace.

Annoyed, but resigned to the fact he was going to have to get used to change, Kirby selected a pure white garment that draped to his ankles, and a red sash that could be wrapped to secure the garment.

Sometimes he still managed to get tangled up, but it at least worked for his purposes.

Training itself, meanwhile, was pleasantly ritualistic in its simplicity. Though Marx often set him to tasks involving his telekinesis – such as tearing up an entire forest and shifting it two feet to the left (which Kirby did after much persuading and with an apologetic prayer to the forest) – the main focus of their training sessions was that of copy abilities.

At first, Kirby expected the trait to be somewhat useless. What did it matter if he could change his appearance to resemble someone else's?

Well, turns out it mattered a whole lot. He didn't just copy appearances – he copied skills, too. Marx took unabated delight in watching Kirby mimic his own magical prowess, and thus spent most of training trying to get Kirby to imitate him.

Teleportation proved to be easily mastered, as well as Marx's bizarre ability to conjure vines, of all things. Miniature explosions were unwieldy, and after nearly blowing up half of Aroa, Kirby decided to avoid that vein of learning altogether (much to Marx's disappointment).

Marx invested a good amount of time in trying to teach Kirby to set fire to citizens. He demonstrated this once by setting a very unfortunate traveler aflame: Kirby displayed his own ability in the field by extinguishing the flames as soon as possible. The poor traveler walked away unharmed, but likely with a future of nightmares ahead of him.

"I don't understand why I need to practice all this stuff," Kirby protested once. "Why does it matter if I can copy you, or if I can set fire to a civilian? None of this really seems comparable to fighting Zero, at least not with how strong you guys say he is."

"Oh, you didn't realize?" Marx answered, quirking an eyebrow.

"Realize what?"

"You'll have to copy Zero Two, Kay. The only reason you're the strongest warrior in the galaxies is because you can copy anyone's power and use it even better than they can. It kinda makes you completely OP, but hey, I'm not the one who decided how to handle the fate of the universe."

But Marx wouldn't tell him what powers Zero Two might have, or what to expect in battle. The entire thing had a surreal feel about it – part of Kirby didn't even believe that he'd eventually be fighting this enigmatic name Zero, who had no physical identity whatsoever that Kirby knew. Part of Kirby was terrified and felt that the moment he fought this invisible enemy was the moment that his life would end. Not that he thought that he would die – although that was a fairly likely option, he figured. No, it was more that he couldn't conceive of what would happen after the battle.

As a strange sort of consolation, Kirby had taken to smuggling Galaxia out of the Lor. He practiced with this sword whenever he was alone. Smuggling it out wasn't difficult, with the sword's ability to convert itself to sheer electricity whenever Kirby willed it. He could store the handle in a tiny leather pouch and wear it around his neck, bringing it out only when he was sure the coast was clear.

And then, whenever Marx left him alone to train, he could pull it from its sheath and practice the same movesets that Meta Knight had dedicated years to teaching him. He was sure that his movements were riddled with mistakes – he could almost hear Meta Knight's voice echoing in his head about how much of a failure he was – but at the same time, he had neither the heart nor the intelligence to improve.

He didn't know what was right or wrong. Where to go next. But there was a peaceful, albeit aching, familiarity in the rhythms of swordplay. In repeating gestures that Meta Knight had taught him a lifetime ago. They were so familiar that it felt as though those years had not passed, and that Kirby was in fact in the fields of Dreamland, performing those moves at the moment that Meta Knight taught them.

Sometimes, alone in the yawning valleys of Aroa, Kirby forgot himself. He forgot the tragedy and the hurt and the weight of the universe on his back. He immersed himself in the beautiful patterns of sword-fighting – against an enemy as invisible to him as Zero – and in doing so, he found peace. It was a lonely sort of peace. But peace nonetheless.

Only when he reached the end of all his known sword stances and moves would he halt, breathless, and the weight of it all would settle again in his heart.

Then the sword in his hands grew heavy. It was so pure in hands so corrupted – often, Kirby wanted to vomit in disgust at his selfishness; for seeking peace when the true owner of this sword lay dead.

It had been three months. At a certain point, Kirby had started believing that he'd accept Meta Knight's death and begin the gradual process of moving on. As more time passed, he realized that wasn't how it worked.

He would accept it. He would keep on living. But part of him would never really move on.

Something about that kind of death stuck with a person forever, like a little wedge of glass trapped in the throbbing of his heart. Sometimes he grew so used to the dull ache that he'd forget it was there. But it always came back to sting, in the simplest of things. It came back when he woke in the middle of the night from a dream where he was still alive. It came back when he held Galaxia in his hands and wanted to cry because he was so utterly unworthy compared to its prior owner; he wanted to apologize repeatedly to the blade for not being Meta Knight.

Meta Knight would have been able to stand up to the evil that he was facing. He would have made a difference. He would have saved the world.

But Kirby… Kirby didn't care about the rise and fall of nations. He didn't care about which deity wished to rule what province. Until two years ago, there had been only one world, one province, one city; that of Dreamland, which turned out to be a greater dream than anything else. And yet Marx and Magolor continually told him that he must play a role in the politics and wars of nations he never had known or loved; beyond that, his entire relationship with Meta Knight had evidently been based upon this same expectation of him.

Training. Learning. All for a cause Kirby did not understand how to relate to.

Saving Khayla, yes – it was to a certain extent his self-proclaimed mission to defend anyone from Marx: anyone but himself, of course. But saving the entire world? The universe?

He felt helpless and staggered before the task, horrified by what was demanded of him while simultaneously having no idea how to prepare or what to expect.

These kind of thoughts often sent him rushing back to the Lor Starcutter, where he would swiftly cram Galaxia back underneath the bed and curl up, shivering.

During the night, he perpetually felt Galaxia's presence there under the bed. He was swamped by horrible delusions about a gold fire that wrapped around the bed and the sheets to set him aflame, gold fire scalding symbols into his back and whispering his failures to him.

While Galaxia burned beneath the bed; Marx burned above him: together Kirby imagined dual fires; one a searing golden that scalded into his back and punished him for every mistake; one an enticing purple that treacherously offered forgetfulness.

Both burned in very different passions; Kirby felt trapped and humiliated between the two entities.

Even when he succumbed to one, he tailored to the other. Even when his mind was filled with gold fire and despair, his body submitted to the nine fingers that touched as if puzzled by the meaning of intimacy. Likewise, when his body curled up and shivered from the weight of the world, his mind lingered eternally on pleasure painted in dark violet.

Bruises ever appeared afresh on his skin. Kirby half-hoped they would go unnoticed, but Magolor's sly looks had him convinced the Halcandran knew anyway. His suspicions were confirmed one morning at the breakfast table, with a simple question -

"He doesn't know the meaning of gentle, does he?" Magolor said, outright and quite conversationally.

Kirby went stiff in his chair, and his hands flew up to tug the collar of his shirt closer to his neck. His eyes darted furtively around the kitchen, although he knew Marx was off in the woods, and nowhere within hearing range of the Lor.

"I gotta say, it's pretty odd that someone as powerful as you would let him do that to you," Magolor continued, as if testing the waters. His gold eyes were far too analyzing for someone who often said things that were obvious or simple.

"It isn't as bad as it looks," Kirby muttered, because he didn't know what else to say.

"You don't sometimes wanna get back at him?"

Kirby glanced at Magolor oddly.

"Hey, I don't mean anything weird about that! All I'm doing is making sure you're a hundred percent behind us, that's all."

Kirby tried to tuck his collar up higher, but it just wasn't staying. "I don't really know what side I'm on," he muttered.

"That sounds confusing," Magolor said cheerfully. "Here-" The Halcandran strode over and plopped next to Kirby, throwing an arm comfortably over his shoulders. "What you gotta do, is stick to what you most believe in. Like me, I have a vision about a world brought together in peace, and I'll do just about anything to make that happen! So what do you believe in?"

Kirby prodded the eggs on his plate; the metal of his fork sounded loud against the ceramic. "Your vision sounds pretty good," he admitted.

"Then all you have to do is follow Marx and I. We're both aiming just for that!"

"Marx is?" Kirby said, unable to disguise the cynicism in his tone.

"Mm." Magolor's brow furrowed. "Well, he's a little less enthusiastic, but still one hundred percent on board!"

"So if I defeat Zero like you guys want… and give you the Crown he stole… everything will be better?"

"Sure Kirby!"

Sighing, Kirby dropped his fork, appetite gone.

"Hey, what's wrong?" Magolor prodded.

Kirby averted his eyes. The floors were spotless. Perfectly clean. The Lor Starcutter was always in pristine condition. Sometimes he wished it weren't. Kirby mumbled something under his breath.

"Didn't catch that, Kirbs."

"Will it make me happy?" Kirby repeated softly.

"Eh?"

Kirby curled his hands into fists over the table. His heart raced in his ears. All his life he had wanted to make other people happy. He wanted to make things right for other people. He never worried about his own happiness, or his own desires – because it just so happened that seeing others happy brought him fulfillment.

But he wasn't –

He wasn't happy.

"K-Kirby?" Magolor put forth tentatively.

"Will it make me happy?" Kirby asked again.

"Kirby, Kirbster, c'mon-"

"It won't," Kirby asserted, and slumped. Because it wouldn't. No matter how all this ended, he still would have been a puppet from the start. A puppet of Magolor's, or Marx's – both of them wanting something from him, having some grand devious end game.

And it didn't even start with them.

There came the traitorous thought, unbidden – _Meta Knight used you, too._

Nobody had ever asked him what he wanted.

Standing stunned, dwarfed by the Lor's pristine white and blue kitchen, Kirby missed home. He missed it with an ache that settled in his bones and in the pathways of his heart.

How much fire did it take to burn away that ache?


	19. Chapter 19

Deep in the bowels of King Dedede's castle, the Star Rod pulsed with a feeble orange glow. This was the only source of light in the small room, but a single glimpse of that friendly light could lift even the most burdened heart. For centuries, the Star Rod had resided here, borne out only rarely, and then not at all. For centuries it had lent its light and protection, and brought hope to the most fearful.

The Star Rod faithfully had kept the dreams of its people true, even when all but the wisest forgot about it. Only now, with darkness spreading its tendrils across the worlds, did the Star Rod falter and wane.

Every night, Fumu came to its room, and offered her silent vigil. Every night, she watched as the glow weakened, sputtered, flickered as if to be extinguished. Her insides would constrict in fear – _maybe this is it, maybe this is its end at last_ – but then the Star Rod would flare to life again, all the more determined in the face of its waning strength.

Then Fumu would exhale softly, and smile, because it was not over yet.

Combing through Meta Knight's archives had taught her the importance of this tiny thing, and now she guarded it with loyal watchfulness, and prayed it would bring home the two she had lost.

"Fumu?" A head poked into the dim room, casting in a sliver of light through the doorway.

She jolted to her feet. "News? Has Meta Kn-"

"No," Captain Doo said quickly. "I'm sorry. He still hasn't contacted us."

"He's two months late. I don't understand."

"I don't think we'll ever understand Meta Knight," Doo said gently.

"What news, then?"

"King Dedede would like to speak with you."

"Now?"

"It sounded serious."

"The day that King Dedede is actually serious…" muttered Fumu.

"Better not ignore it, miss."

Oh, he was probably right. She followed Captain Doo out, subconsciously combing her fingers through her hair again. The tawny locks had by now grown out nearly to her shoulders. The new length couldn't rub away other physical signs of what had transpired a year ago, but it could – and most certainly did – serve as proof that a person could recover from even the worst of experiences. Fumu had developed the habit of frequently touching or combing through her hair as a reassurance.

Captain Doo led her to the throne room, and respectfully bowed out. King Dedede, as he could be customarily found, was lounging in his throne looking every inch the gluttonous and lazy king he was. The past year had changed him in some ways quite a lot - and in some ways, not at all.

"What do you want?" Fumu asked, not even trying to hide her exasperation.

"Three barrels of ale and a feast'a food," grunted Dedede.

Fumu rolled her eyes, prepared to rephrase the question, when Dedede leaned forward on the throne and fixed his eyes on her.

"The villagers keep complainin'. They come in here every day now! I can't barely get any rest myself. They whine about nightmares day in and day out. I thought you was supposed to be fixin' this."

"I've been trying! I've been looking everywhere in the library, for anything. There's been nothing." She couldn't hide a flare of frustration. Meta Knight may have shared some information before his departure, but he sure did leave them with a lot of unclear or insufficient instructions. He was supposed to have contacted them by now, and instead left all of Dreamland to suffer.

"Well, try harder." Dedede kicked up his feet. "And add two deaths."

Fumu stilled. "Just yesterday?"

"Tonight. Got news half-hour ago. You think I'd be outta my cozy bed otherwise?"

"Oh no…" Fumu averted her eyes. It kept happening. It was getting worse. She was trying to keep in control of the situation, keep everyone calm, be the leader Meta Knight was… but it just felt like everything was getting progressively worse.

"Hey, why dontchya get some of those flowers – whaddaya calm em – the Narcow? Those did the trick."

"It's just a temporary solution… We were supposed to have a permanent one by now, but…."

"If it means stopping these deaths, a temp solution would be mighty helpful," Dedede pointed out. "Then these civilians would stop interruptin' my beauty sleep."

Fumu shook her head. "We can't. They only grow outside the border."

"And look where Kirby and Meta Knight are!"

"Dedede, no. We have no way of knowing if Kirby and Meta Knight are even…" she faltered. "If they're even okay or not. We're not risking it." Even as she said it, she wondered. Would Meta Knight have wanted her to go get the Narcao? Dreamland was sitting on six deaths now, due to nightmares that could kill their victims. In the past year, the nightly situation had drastically worsened. Would it really be so bad to risk her own life, if it meant saving others?

"Well, you better find a solution quickish."

"You could be a little more sympathetic," Fumu bit out. "If you haven't noticed, I'm the one pulling all the weight around here. All you do is order me to do this or that, and you don't even care either way!"

King Dedede dropped heavily from his throne and gave Fumu a withering look. Then, quietly, "Escargon had another nightmare tonight. Second in a row. I care." Turning on his heel, he stalked out of the throne room.

Fumu slumped against the wall, exhaustion crawling up on her bones.

"Miss Fumu?" Captain Doo crept up, worry in his mocha eyes.

"Hey, captain."

"Are you all right?"

"I don't know," she answered honestly, avoiding his eyes. "I just… wish I could pick up where Meta Knight left off. Everything seemed better when he was around. Everything was better when they both were around." She hid her eyes beneath her hands, and exhaled. "I'm trying to keep it together, I really am…."

Captain Doo smiled softly at her; it was a smile both sad and reassuring. "Miss, you keep together all the hopes of my servants and I."

Fumu's hands dropped from her face. "That's it."

"Um, miss?"

"The servants! Hundreds of them!"

"Six hundred and –"

"Captain Doo, surely we can cross the borders with an army like that!"

"C-cross the borders? L-leave Dreamland?"

Fumu paced back and forth, rubbing her chin thoughtfully. "Kirby went on his own years ago, after all. And came back fine…." Discounting the fact he dragged in a monster with him, but it wasn't as though Fumu would be so trusting. Kirby did mention the outside seemed safe, too. And the Narcao plants couldn't have been far, right? "He said there were no demons…" she muttered. Fumu had never dared to leave the border herself. Like it or not, she was valuable to the castle – she was the sole person doing research on the Star Rod, and jointly helped Captain Doo train the servants. If she was to disappear like Kirby and Meta Knight…. It would leave Dreamland with little hope.

"But with an army… for only a few hours, at most…." Was she truly willing to put the servants at risk, though? Captain Doo, at risk? Would such a venture be worth it?

"But people are dying…" she continued under her breath. If she chose not to go, then villagers would definitely die. If she chose to go, then there was a chance to stop the nightmares and prevent deaths – at least temporarily. With an entire army, they could bring back Narcao in hordes….

"Miss Fumu, you're worrying me," Captain Doo interrupted her thoughts.

She grasped his shoulder. "Captain, what if this was part of Meta Knight's intention? What if he wanted us to train the servants so that we could safely retrieve Narcao from outside the borders?"

"Ah, Miss, I don't –"

But Fumu could not be convinced otherwise. For the first time since Meta Knight and Kirby's departure, she felt that she at last understood a sliver of Meta Knight's plan.

Arrangements were hastily made, and by the dawn of the next day, Fumu had Captain Doo at her side, and all the servants amassed before them beneath Dreamland's perfect blue sky.

"All right." Fumu turned round and faced the small army resolutely. At first glance, it was difficult to take them entirely seriously. All the members of the army were, a mere two years ago, clumsy cooks, custodians, assistants, and overall do-nothings. Even now they were haphazard and uncertain: each shorter than Fumu in stature and sporting wide uncertain brown eyes. Though outfitted with an array of weapons, they never stopped looking like a clumsy mob of children.

But these were the soldiers of Dreamland's only army, and they would do. Fumu hoped.

"Today we leave the border in search of Narcao plants. The power from the Star Rod is failing, and we need to protect our civilians with whatever means possible. Does everyone remember what the Narcao plant looks like?"

Glances were exchanged uneasily between the makeshift soldiers.

"It's simple. They've got the pearl-white petals that curl inward at the tips. If you see anything like that, let Captain Doo or I know. Now, some ground rules…. Firstly – and most importantly – we all stick together. Understand?" Fumu tapped her own sword on the ground. "No matter what happens, we do not split apart. Our strength is in our size. If we come across anything frightening, listen to your Captain or I. We'll choose whether to fight or retreat. But do not abandon the group."

The servants were beginning to quiver where they stood, and Fumu flinched. Maybe she was coming on too strong. Her determination to lead as Meta Knight did wasn't meant to intimidate. "We'll be fine," Fumu remedied in a gentler voice, allowing a small smile to her lips. "Remember guys, Kirby did this trip on his own two years ago and came back without even a scratch."

Coincidentally, Kirby was also entirely AWOL. But the anecdote seemed to cheer up the servants a bit more. A few were even nodding positively.

Fumu exhaled slowly. Right. That would have to do. "Ready? Let's go, march behind us!"

She strode purposefully towards the gates of Dreamland and swallowed her fear. Doo walked at her side, much less reserved about showing his unease.

"Are you sure about this, miss?" he hissed at her, tugging on his armor.

"It's the only option," Fumu replied firmly.

They reached the golden gate that marked Dreamland's border, and there stopped.

"It looked like something tried to get in," Doo said nervously, gesturing at long claw marks just outside of the gate.

Fumu had to agree, but wasn't about to declare that out loud. "Come on," she pressed. "For the villagers."

And in one stride, she stepped across the gate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this ending sounds familiar.


	20. Chapter 20

Ifriti remembered fields in his youth.

Splendid, waving stalks of wheat and barley that swayed in great, sweeping breezes.

He remembered his lungs expanding with pure oxygen rich air, and the burn of his calves as he leapt along the field's edges, racing his brothers and sisters.

Later, when everything changed, he would try to remember the sounds of their laughter. The sight of the beautiful yellow fields.

The names of his siblings.

But Nightmare is very good at what he does. And in time, nearly everything is forgotten.

 

Holy Nightmare Co. did not start out as a military force.

It was a company, before and beyond anything else, albeit a company of dubious morality.

See, there often came a time when a government may need to know something – say, the effects of high doses of plutonium on the body, or perhaps, what would happen if you sprayed an entire village with poisonous gas, or maybe even, how long could the human body survive in freezing conditions or high pressure?

This information could be important, you see, in biological or chemical warfare, or perhaps even population control, or the creation of superhuman soldiers – Nightmare wasn't picky on the reason. The job of his covert company was clear: find human subjects, discover what this or that 'treatment' did, and then provide that information to the interested party. At the end of the day, he and his workers walked home with their wallets bursting, and his employers walked away with no blood on their hands.

It was elegantly efficient, and kept both parties satisfied.

Nightmare meanwhile stayed out of choosing political sides, and would happily exploit both sides in any given situation to benefit himself the greatest.

This situation worked, and worked well, for countless years… Until various planets began uniting together and new laws were pushed forth by citizens pleading for rights and ethical treatment.

Nightmare had to watch in horror as government after government ceased correspondence with him and joined the campaign of ethics and peace.

Eventually, the movement led to the unification of no less than thirty-three planets under the Galactic Federation, effectively compromising Nightmare's neutrality.

It became clear that Nightmare was losing his consumer base, quickly, and that something had to change.

Luckily, in this fragile new world of ethics and rules, Nightmare had at hand a massive collection of data on human experimentation, and chemical and biological warfare. He had designed soldiers far superior to anyone else's, and he had buildings stationed across dozens of planets, where his own employers were positioned in abundant numbers.

In a way, he had accidentally set himself up to become the next hegemonic power.

Thus, in the span of three years, Holy Nightmare Co. transformed from a covert business to a military power. The human experimentation continued, and even expanded, as Nightmare felt that war provided an abundance of resources. Women, children, the feeble or weak, men who did not die for their cause, or those on primitive planets who had no role… These were all leftovers, the reliqui's of war, and all could contribute to Nightmare's military.

He captured these people and had supervisors stick needles in their brains and attach metal to limbs and take everything human about them and corrupt them into something so utterly inhuman.

Nightmare was pleased with his works, and lovingly dubbed them demon beasts… monsters to inspire dread in the hearts of any who dared oppose him.

He had no care for the individual lives his subjects had led, and he cared even less about remembering each person that passed through his facilities.

Perhaps if he had kept better records, he would have noticed a glaring problem beginning to arise amidst his ranks…

 

Ifriti felt a cold metal table digging into his spine. Something smooth and hard dug into his wrists, and his head swum in a drug-induced haze. Dizzily, he fought to remember where he was.

He remembered the stars. The cool summer evening, the voices of his siblings humming around him. A bed of wheat prickling at the nape of his neck.

He remembered dozing, feeling at peace, cozily surrounded by family.

And now he woke here, his brain swollen and hot in his skull, an ache pounding beneath his eyes, chilly metal having wrapped itself around his body.

Voices chattered around him, and they spoke in strange, harsh syllables. Distantly, dazedly, Ifriti thought, _aliens._ The thought was so silly that a laugh burst from his lips, rattling his shoulder blades against the table and making his head throb. His wrists caught on metal restraints.

The voices went silent.

Ifriti tugged harder at his wrists. They were bound. Chained.

His eyes snapped open and horror drenched his insides.

The room was dark, all but three searingly bright lights trained down upon him from above like eyes. His entire body was stripped bare, he could feel that now, and he could not move his neck, as it too was shackled to the table.

Two strange pale beings leaned predatorily over him, with eyes red as a sun in its dying throes.

Their conversation began again, a horrific unearthly click-hum.

Ifriti yanked his right arm, hard – his wrist snagged in the shackle and pain raked up his arm.

"Let me go," he growled.

He tried to brace his legs under him. Something cold clenched around his ankles and stopped the movement.

"Let me go!" His heart thundered in his chest, his breathing was coming quicker, quicker.

Another yank, this time to pull both arms close to him. Again, both snagged in the shackles.

He couldn't curl up. He couldn't sit up. He couldn't move at all.

"Let me go, let me go," he uttered this rapid staccato beat until his respiration was a stuttery tremble, in-out-in-out-in-out-in-out and he couldn't breath – he couldn't breathe – a strangled cry emerged from his throat and he lost all self control, thrashing violently against his restraints, his skull thudded dully on the table, something wet spread into his scalp, skin tore at his wrists and ankles, his spine arched and slammed down -

Then it all ended.

Everything went dark.

 

He was cold. Hungry. Everything hurt.

His vision started blurry, and all he discerned was swirling miasmas of grey and faded blue.

As the images cleared, different objects in the room slid into focus. A rusted sink whose pipes loomed inches from his face, as if he had collapsed after running the faucet. An iron bedframe squatted sullenly in the corner, sagging under a ripped mattress. From his angle, level with the floor, Ifriti could see a single pail beneath the bed, the purpose of which he could easily guess.

Aside from these things, the room was empty and all slate grey. There were no windows, and only one door – a thick metal thing whose appearance alone seemed staunchly dedicated to keeping Ifriti trapped in.

Ifriti swallowed, and the spit pricked his dry throat. His tongue felt thick in his mouth.

Slowly, he shifted so that he was on all fours. He had to escape. Whatever this place was, he had to escape it.

He took several deep breaths, acknowledging the unknown pain raking through all his muscles, but telling himself firmly that he could not let it stop him.

Whatever these people had done to him, he had to push through. He had to be strong.

With these words in his head, Ifriti hauled himself up onto his shaky legs, and steadied himself against the wall.

Ifriti then staggered the entire perimeter of his room, sliding his hands along the thick concrete walls to find a weakness – any weakness at all - in their structure. He felt along the seams of the door, and found it was locked with multiple heavy dead bolt locks.

After this yielded nothing, he dropped to his knees and crawled, testing each and every floor tile to see if any were loose.

He ended where he had began, beneath the sink, feeling horribly helpless and out of options.

What's worse, his physical condition had deteriorated, and on top of the muscle aches, he felt queasy and light-headed.

Maybe if he just rested here for a couple minutes –

_Click, click, click…._

He raised his head. Footsteps, from out in the hall.

They stopped. A shadow fell over the slit beneath the door, and Ifriti had a split second of frozen terror before the huge locks clanged open.

In strode a woman of tall stature, every inch confident and arrogant. She was adorned in a sweeping black cloak, under whose hood her yellow eyes roved.

She tossed a haughty gaze around the room before spying Ifriti crouching beneath the sink. Her nose wrinkled up in disdain. "There you are."

The deadbolts slammed into place behind her.

It occurred to Ifriti if he was going to die – and he was quite certain he was going to die – then he'd best do it at least standing up.

He forced himself to his feet, clinging to the sink for support. "Who are you?"

"Cultra." Without another word, she pulled out a strange black rectangle from her back pocket. "All right. Name?"

"You can understand me," Ifriti realized out loud. But earlier… earlier the creatures around him had spoken another language…

Cultra scowled. "There was no use for your primitive language. The chip has you wired to speak the common tongue."

"What?"

Cultra widened her eyes to show off their shocking color, and she spoke in a slow monotone, "little plastic chip in skull. It translate language for you, uh duh."

Her eyes went half-lidded again, and her voice returned to normal, "So, what's the name?"

"I… I'm not speaking my own language?" Now that he focused on it, the words did play strangely around his lips and tongue, contorting them to syllables he couldn't recall having made before, syllables that made him uneasy and scared of his own self.

How could magic like this be possible?

"Do you have a name?" Cultra repeated, enunciating each word loudly. She waved a small flat rectangle around impatiently. "'Cause I gotta program a name into here, and if you don't give me one, I'm calling you something like 'Spikey,' or 'Stupid,' all right?"

"Ah -Ifr – Ifriti."

Cultra rolled her eyes and typed away at her machine. "Okay, great. E-F-R-E-E-T-I. Great."

"N-no – I-F-R –"

"Age?"

"My name is spelled –"

"How old are you?"

"Where am I?" Ifriti yelled out. There was silence in the room.

Cultra lowered the strange device in her hand and leveled a look of exhausted superiority at Ifriti. "Kid, that thing around your neck can double as a shock collar. How 'bout you just shut up and answer my questions? It'll make everything go at lot easier, I promise."

"What is this place?" Ifriti tried, as he began to work out what a 'shock collar' might be.

Then he felt a tiny prick at his neck. He had a mere second to wonder about the sensation before pain raked down his nervous system, setting afire each sensitive nerve and tearing through his body.

Then the pain was gone.

Panting, Ifriti realized he was on the floor, clutching his throat, and his scream echoed hollowly in the empty room.

"How old are you?"

"Nineteen," Ifriti whispered, cheek pressed to the filthy tile floor. Bile rose up his throat and threatened to gag him. His stomach churned.

"All right." Cultra tapped the strange rectangle purposefully. "And your previous job?"

Ifriti closed his eyes, trying to work down the urge to vomit. "I worked um, for my parents. On a farm. A wheat farm, in um, in the f-fields. Sowing seeds and-"

"Okay, that's enough." The supervisor tapped away at the rectangle, and it dawned on Ifriti that she must be making notes of some sort. "Do you have any physical or mental illnesses?"

"No."

"All right." She tucked the object into her pocket.

Ifriti had the briefest spark of hope that she would leave him to his misery.

Then she knelt beside him. He cringed against the floor as her hands reached for his throat; against his will, he murmured, 'please, no-'

Only to find her standing up again, a thick chain in her hands. She tugged the chain, and something tightened around Ifriti's neck. He realized with shock that the chain was connected to his collar, like he was some wild animal at the end of a leash.

The thought brought his nausea back in leaps and bounds.

She didn't actually want… she couldn't actually expect him to walk at her heels like a pet, did she?

"Well?" she lifted an eyebrow expectantly, tapping her nails on the chain. "I can make this very unpleasant for you, Efreeti, but I'd really rather leave work early today, so how about you just come along like a good dog?"

Ifriti bristled. "You won't get away with this."

"Take it up with my supervisor," Cultra said, rolling her eyes. "Now, are you coming?"

Ifriti gritted his teeth together, but didn't want to inspire another bout of pain from the shock collar. First, they strode down a long metal-grey hallway with countless steel doors, one of which he had emerged from. Presumably, then, these other doors housed individuals just like him, who ended up here without any idea of how or why.

"What is this place?" he asked again as he followed her.

"B73. Holy Nightmare's property – one of many."

He eyed the chain connecting him to her and heavily considered yanking it from her hands and bolting before she could catch him.

"It can't be legal," Ifriti bit back. "Someone needs to stop you."

"I'm only an employee, as you will be, too," Cultra sighed, already exasperated with the conversation.

"People won't let this happen once they find out," Ifriti continued firmly, latching onto his bravado to raise his own spirits. A place like this could not be allowed to exist… kidnapping, torture… this was inhumane, monstrous. As soon as he escaped….

They turned left, and right, and left, and right, and navigated a labyrinth of hallways all looking identical.

"This facility's packed with logs," Cultra interrupted his thoughts. "We can't get you guys outta here fast enough to please the higher-ups, and they keep shuttling in more of you. We'll have to move you to a holding room with another log, all right?"

"Yes," Ifriti answered, fingers itching to grab the chain. If he could just outrun her… no matter how labyrinthine this place was, there had to be an exit, and it was only him versus her…. Unless there were other employees, but he could dodge…

She stopped at last and yanked open another heavy reinforced door by swiping a thin flat object. "Here. Meet your new roommate, Tac."

The room was dimly lit, and it took a second for Ifriti's eyes to adjust.

In the corner was curled an astonishingly young boy – Ifriti would have guessed his age around twelve, a good five or six years younger than Ifriti himself. The boy wore thick black garments not unlike Cultra's, but his demeanor was precisely the opposite of hers. While she radiated careless confidence, he practically bled fear.

He did not look up when Ifriti entered, and he was tight in fetal position.

The moment Cultra unhooked his… leash, Ifriti knelt at the boy's side.

"Hey, Tac?" He touched his shoulder lightly. "That's your name, right? Tac, look at me, buddy. Can you tell me if something hurts?"

He did not reply.

Ifriti leaned closer and whispered, "I'll get us out, Tac."

"Cute," Cultra said from the door, her eyes cool.

Ifriti hid Tac with his much larger body and glared at Cultra. "This is a terrible facility. I will see its ruin."

Cultra opened her mouth to retort, but at that moment another individual appeared at the doorway, eyes frantic. "Cultra you gotta come right away-"

"I'm in the middle of something," Cultra eyed this newcomer much like a person would eye a cockroach squashed on their shoe.

"It's very serious," the man said, "Noddy left the arena door open and now there's a breakout on floor 3. Boss is furious."

Cultra rolled her eyes. "Honestly, he is the worst, most incompetent –" she cut her words off with a scowl. "All right. Let's go."

The door slammed behind her, its clang echoing in the tiny room.

Ifriti relaxed his protective stance over Tac.

Hold on…

He waited.

Waited.

Waited.

But the deadbolts never locked back into place.

His muscles tensed as he opened and closed his fingers.

It was too easy. Could Cultra really be that negligent as to forget to lock the doors?

He glanced back at Tac. The poor boy hadn't noticed anything unusual; he was far too occupied shivering and staring with unspoken horror at the stained floor.

"Tac," Ifriti whispered. Again, he knelt at the boy's level, but his heart was racing.

They might not have that much time before someone noticed the door wasn't locked. They needed to move, now.

He went to great lengths to speak gently, nonetheless. "Tac," he said, "we need to get moving. We're gonna get you outta here, and we'll find our way back to your family. You need to come with me, though."

Tac said nothing. He seemed completely paralyzed and numb to his situation. Ifriti briefly considered leaving him, but shook his head violently. No. They were getting out of this together. Tac had nobody else to help, and without Ifriti, he likely wouldn't even leave the room of his own volition.

Ifriti grabbed Tac's wrist hard. "I'm sorry, but you're coming with me whether you like it or not."

As Ifriti yanked his wrist, Tac got up rather complacently and followed him.

The door slowly opened; Ifriti poked his inquisitive head out from the frame and surveyed the hallway.

Empty.

"Come on," Ifriti whispered, and hauled Tac out into the hallway with him.

After a few steps, the boy seemed to gather at last that he was leaving, and got his own feet properly moving under him, although he never lost his dissociated expression.

Left, right; Ifriti had no idea which direction would lead him true, so he arbitrarily turned left.

Ifriti could only hope that he and Tac would eventually stumble upon a door to the outside. Ideally, before he collapsed from the nausea and exhaustion overtaking his body.

They passed countless numbers of steel dead bolted doors; one after another after another after another… the sheer number of people that must be kept here made Ifriti's head swim.

"You don't know a way out, do you?" Ifriti asked Tac desperately.

Silence, which ifriti had begun to expect from Tac. He didn't want to know the horrors Tac must have endured.

Ifriti pressed on, pushing away the thought.

They spent perhaps five minutes roaming the hallways helplessly, although it felt like many painstaking hours.

At last they crossed a black unlabeled door, which didn't look promising, but also wasn't just another steel reinforced door.

Ifriti tried the handle – unlocked!

"Yes," he breathed.

The outside, maybe?

He pressed his ear to the door.

Nothing.

Nobody there?

He could only hope, because the last thing he needed was to be caught when they were so close to the finish line.

"Ready, Tac?" he whispered.

He took Tac's silence as agreement, and burst into the room.

It wasn't the outside: no welcoming sun, no friendly breeze.

But it was empty, which was promising.

Ifriti slunk in, Tac at his heels. There were dozens of rectangles here, not unlike the one Cultra had held in her hand, poised all over the room in this horrid wall of screens. Each screen depicted a fuzzy grey picture that illuminated the room eerily.

"I don't understand…" Ifriti mused, at least releasing Tac's wrist.

He drifted closer to the screens. Each one depicted some kind of hallway…. But they all looked like the very same hallway.

As he looked on, he spotted a dark shape… A mini Cultra. Striding purposefully down a hallway and then out of sight.

"Where did she go?" Ifriti glanced behind the little rectangle.

Cultra had just walked right out of existence!

Suddenly, she appeared in another little rectangle. Ifriti leaned close and poked the flat surface. The mini Cultra inside seemed absolutely unaffected.

"Hold on…"

Ifriti watched as she disappeared yet again, and reappeared in another.

It was like…. The screens connected.

Or more like, the hallways through which she walked connected…

"They're watching the halls," Ifriti breathed in horror. He was looking at dozens of images of the facility, in real time, like magic.

Tac backed away, eyes flitting left and right anxiously.

"No," Ifriti said, grabbing Tac's wrist before he could dart away. "If this room is what watches all the others, we're safest here for now. And I think I can use these screens to find a way out."

When he assessed the rectangles that Cultra had walked through, he could see that the field of view for each overlapped… as in, he could see a bit of the same door in two cameras, and then that same corner in two more…. They were all linked together, and if he could figure out how they all connected…

Squinting close at the screens, Ifriti worked out painstakingly how each field of view connected with another.

"This is the only door that doesn't lead to another rectangle," Ifriti finally pointed excitedly. "That means the area behind that door isn't being watched! It's the only door not accounted for, so it must lead closer to the exit! And right here – that's the door we just went into for this room. So if we exit here… and turn left here…. We can make it out!"

Tac, as usual said nothing, but the trembling in his hands resumed full force.

Ifriti's face fell. He stepped closer. "Tac, I don't know what they did to you. I know you're scared. But right now, we need to have courage. Look, I mapped out where we need to go. If we just…. Go as quick as we can, and get out that door, we'll be free. Just one last run. Can you do that?"

Tac tilted his head up: for the first time, Ifriti saw thick scars wrapping all the way around the boy's throat. But for the first time, he saw a hint of hope in Tac's eyes. The boy nodded once, firmly, and Ifriti smiled faintly.

"All right. Ready?"

Another short nod. Ifriti grabbed Tac's wrist. "Let's go."

Ifriti took one last look to make sure the screens said his path was clear -

And they bolted out of the screens-room.

Running hurt, it set afire the injuries on his ankles and made his head swim, the hallway warbling in and out of focus, but they just had to make it these last few feet – he sunk his teeth into his bottom lip to prevent the urge to vomit and pushed aside the fog –

There was a heady rush in his chest, terrified, but certain, they were so close –

_Soon I'll be back to my siblings…._

They skidded around a corner, and there was the door – the single door that lead out of the facility!

New energy pumped through Ifriti's blood, and he practically leapt forward, a gleeful laugh ripped from his chest – soon he would see his siblings again!

The ground lurched violently beneath him, his vision blurred, something cracked against his head.

Everything went white.

He came back to consciousness shortly after, a ringing in his ears.

His eyes, when he opened them, took in the fact he was looking upside-down the hallway he had just been sprinting through.

Something tight was secured around his ankles.

_Am I…. strung upside down?_

Into his view came Cultra and her long-strided, confident walk and cool half-lidded gaze.

Ifriti blinked hard several times. _What…._

_Just…_

_Happened?_

"You look so shocked," upside-down Cultra said, smirking. "Don't be too disappointed, Efreeti. You performed remarkably well, you know."

Ifriti twisted in midair, "Tac! Tac, you need to let me down! We can overpower them together!"

Tac, who was curiously not trapped in a similar manner, did not lift his eyes, nor move.

"Stop, really," Cultra sighed. "Tac's part of your test, Efreeti. You don't need to protect him."

"Huh?"

Tac sidled closer to Cultra, and she rubbed his head mockingly. "He's one of us! Don't feel too bad: he tricks everyone. Something about the silent type really gets to you bleeding hearts."

He… had been working for Cultra?

Cultra didn't even care to linger on his betrayed expression. She pulled that stupid little rectangle right out of her pocket again and tap-tapped away. "Let's see….. you scored low on physical fitness, that's a pity… I thought you'd do better on that. But the intelligence, not bad!"

"I don't understand," Ifriti choked out, rage pulsing in his chest. "This was a test?"

Cultra rolled her eyes.

"Th-the guard," Ifriti realized, "he…. You left the door unlocked on purpose."

"Good job," Cultra said, with true approval in her voice.

Ifriti curled back his lip, but rather than wasting his time with Cultra, he twisted his torso towards Tac. "You were just like me, weren't you?" Ifriti demanded. "I saw the scars on your neck. You're a victim, too! We could have escaped!

Tac, as usual, said nothing.

"Bastard!" Ifriti thrashed futilely against the ropes binding him.

Cultra's impassive face leaned over him. "I think I know what we'll do with you."


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The use of the name 'Efreeti' instead of 'Ifriti' is deliberate in this chapter, since Cultra misspelled it in the last chapter and now Efreeti/Ifriti does not remember his original name.
> 
> I love that you guys took well to Efreeti. :') You make my nerd heart happy.

Efreeti opened his eyes.

He was laying flat on his back on his mattress. Slowly, his head rolled to the side. His room had a tiny window, perched high up on the concrete wall. Through it he could see a melancholic sky.

Something felt different. Wrong.

Slowly he sat up. His entire body protested in aches and soreness. Dully, he ran his hand along his arm, finding burns and scars beneath his touch.

There was a mirror poised in his room; Efreeti slid off the bed and slowly wandered towards it.

The closer he got to his image, the greater his incredulity grew.

The image in the mirror…. Was that really him?

Thick locks of dark hair descended past his shoulders, his body was large in stature yet lean. Most frightening were the blazing red eyes that stood out harshly against his dark skin.

None of this… felt familiar.

Despite his bewilderment, he couldn't recall what he may have looked like before. He couldn't conjure any face that he identified as his own, as if he was the mind, but his body was something he only wore, something that wasn't him. Unease crawled through his veins.

"Efreeti?"

He turned. The person standing in the doorway, that was his supervisor, Cultra. He knew this intuitively, and in fact felt an intense surge of subservience to this person who obviously knew more than he.

The sensation was disorienting, and felt just as unfamiliar as his face.

His response, however, was quick, "Yes, ma'am."

A satisfied smile curled at Cultra's lips. "Good. I see you've settled in."

"Yes, ma'am."

She surveyed him up and down. "Have you discovered any new abilities?"

"Abilities?"

"Control over fire? Unusual strength?"

"I… no…"

The supervisor sighed and shook her head. "Well, it was unlikely to begin with. You seem to have weak conformation. But Nightmare will find use for you, just like all the other failures."

Nightmare. Images flashed before Efreeti's eyes; an imposing stature, gleaming yellow eyes, a wild grin, a deep, powerful voice. "I've met him," Efreeti realized out loud.

The supervisor snorted. "That's your programming talking, Efreeti. We give every employee background information on Nightmare so you know who's employing you. But trust me, you've never met him. Like you would get that honor!"

"Oh." That explained his spotty memory on the encounter, at least.

Cultra smirked. "I've never met the guy myself. You're not the only sucker."

So his belief that he had met Nightmare came from… the programming.

"You put memories in my head?" Efreeti asked, although the concept didn't feel too strange. Of course they did. That was what Holy Nightmare did, and it was all for a good purpose.

"In a way."

"Who was I before?"

"Efreeti. The same person." Cultra finished taking her notes on the computer and tucked it away. "The less you think about who you may have been, the better. It won't do you any good, and you won't remember. We removed portions of your hippocampus. It's a common procedure here, and will sever all memories prior to your arrival at Holy Nightmare and induction as a demon beast. It's best you forget about anything else."

"Oh," Efreeti said helplessly.

Cultra tugged another, even tinier-looking computer out of her pocket and began to fiddle with it.

"Did I volunteer?" Efreeti asked.

"Mm?"

"For these experiments. Did I volunteer? Did I want to serve Nightmare?"

"Sure. Stick out your hand."

Efreeti obediently held out his right hand.

"Other one," she corrected, and tugged his left hand forward.

In two quick motions, she had the second computer device strapped around his wrist. A screen, perhaps two inches tall and four inches wide, was attached to the strap in easy viewing range for Efreeti.

"This is your disc," she told him. "It stays in constant communication with the tracking device we've implanted in your body. If the two are more than ten feet apart for a period of three minutes, or if the disc is in any way damaged, I will be notified immediately. You have thirteen days to return to base here. On failure to return, we will send an unmanned vessel out to retrieve a report from you. In the instance of an unsatisfactory report, you will be terminated. Otherwise, the vessel will escort you back to the base. Is that clear?"

"Hold on, I have a tracking device?"

"Don't lose this," Cultra demanded sternly. "You lose it, you wreck it, and nine times outta ten, we have to kill you."

Efreeti unconsciously held the device closer to his body, as if the very breath of his supervisor would ruin it.

"Good," she said. "Since you have demonstrated below average physical capabilities, we're assigning you to reconnaissance. You've been programmed with a chip that significantly increases the speed at which you learn languages. You will be sent to various planets, blend in with the native life, and learn their defenses, military strategy – anything you can."

"Uh, okay… could you explain all that again?"

Cultra rolled her eyes. "Just follow me."

He trailed at her heels as they entered the hall.

Weird, that all the doors along this hall looked the same, and all were dead-bolted into place….

But it shouldn't be weird – after all, he volunteered for this and obviously this was some place he'd been staying at. He just… couldn't remember volunteering.

That seemed like a pretty important thing to forget.

Efreeti was in the middle of contemplating what else important he might have forgotten when Cultra halted him before a large unmarked door.

"The hangar," she told him before throwing open the door.

Immediately, a rush of cold, charnel air washed over his face. His eyes adjusted to the room and his blood ran cold.

Something was at the center of the room –a creature at once alien and monstrous, squatting on three legs and glaring with metallic, reflective eyes.

Hold on…

An aircraft. A ship. Of course! He knew what ships were. Somehow. Efreeti let out a light laugh and clutched his chest. "Oh man… that st-"

"This ship is property of Holy Nightmare," Cultra cut in as they strode towards it. "It's yours now, which basically means we pay for it and we repair it and you better not get a single speck of dust on it. You crash it and survive, and you won't be alive much longer. You hear me? You bring this back spotless."

"H-hold on, what? Bring it –"

"Back, kid. Are you deaf?"

"I'm taking – this out?"

"You heard me."

"I – I don't know how to fly!"

"You took a five month training course," Cultra said frankly. "You just don't remember it."

"Wh-what?"

Cultra sighed. "I can't believe it's my job to walk all you newbies through this. I keep telling them, maybe it isn't so bad to keep some memories, but noo…." She shook her head. "Whatever. Look just, you guys are supposed to come outta training and hit the ground running. Get in the cockpit."

Efreeti knew exactly what she spoke of despite his certainty that he'd never heard that word before in his life, and within seconds he was situated in the front seat of the plane. He felt unsettled, encased by a cold, emotionless hunk of metal.

"Am I going somewhere?" he asked. "Am I flying myself somewhere?"

"Popstar," Cultra said, tapping at her computer. "There, now I've put your assignment onto your disc – that will give you the coordinates and brief you on the mission. Most assignments, you'll be assessing a planet's defenses. This one is a bit different. Bit useless, if you ask me."

Efreeti gaped as his disc's screen filled with blocky green letters. And then data appeared on his screen: Efreeti squinted at it. "Hoshi no…. Kirby of the Stars?"

"Correct. Good to see your translation systems are functional."

"What is Kirby of the Stars?"

His supervisor scowled. "A waste of time, if you ask me, but Nightmare has exponentially increased the number of demon beasts searching for him, so there you have it. He's on everyone's disc, but most don't worry about it. A trillion of us and no one's seen hide nor hair. Far as I'm concerned, he's a legend."

"Then why…?"

"You can look him up later. Apparently some intel indicated he might be on that planet, so whatever, now we're sending another good reconnaissance employee out on a wild goose chase. I don't make the rules."

"Are you sure I know how to do this? I don't remember training…" Efreeti said uneasily.

"Soldier, turn your ship on."

The words sparked something – Efreeti adjusted the fuel selector valve to draw from both engines, pressed the carburetor heat plunger in, switched on the master switch, twisted the primer to atomize fuel into the engine's two cylinders, flicked three buttons to prepare for interstellar flight, and lastly, twisted the ignition key to set the engine rumbling.

Efreeti's hands fell to the wheel. "I don't remember training," he said blankly.

Cultra smirked. "I don't get tired of that shocked look. All right. Here's your assignment." She swiped her screen; coordinates and instructions appeared on Efreeti's disk.

"You can read all about what you gotta do, and then input those coordinates into the ship.

"Yeah," Efreeti agreed dazedly.

"Great. See ya later, kid."

 

Space was scary.

Lonely.

Gazing at the infinite stars, Efreeti thought of how small he was, how insignificant. A tiny dot drifting amongst giants.

His chest ached, and he felt that he had forgotten something – something very important. Something that was supposed to make him feel… not alone.

But try as he might, he could never figure out what it was.

As the hours pressed on, and he drew closer to Popstar, Efreeti sang to himself.

The words didn't make sense to him, being in a language not programmed on his disc, but they felt familiar on his tongue. It was a lulling song; even if he couldn't remember where he had learned it, or why he knew it, it brought him peace.

Maybe some day he would learn where he had heard it.

 

It was nighttime on Popstar. Three days Efreeti had spent on this planet, and he had decided it was nearly as lonely as space. He hadn't seen hind nor hair of a single human being, certainly not one named Kirby.

Dusk had fallen, shrouding the forest in deep blackness, and Efreeti lit a fire to warm his bones.

His supplies, which had been provided in the back of the ship, would last him a month on the surface of Popstar, which both seemed like an enormous amount of time to spend on a foreign, lonely place, and also seemed like hardly enough time to explore an entire planet.

Already Efreeti was beginning to feel that his search was futile, just as Cultra had suspected, and he wished to return to the fortress earlier rather than later.

Perhaps Kirby really was nothing but a legend, and this whole search was pointless. It would have been better to get a mission that fell more in line with what Nightmare needed in the war, rather than chasing a fairy-tale. Although he couldn't remember volunteering, he worked for Nightmare now, and it seemed that he ought to be as useful as possible to the man, rather than meandering around distant planets.

Efreeti sighed and gazed meekly into the flames, which danced in his red eyes. He stretched out his hands and watched how they caged the fire.

It seemed that he had been assigned the loneliest job.

Then again, what did he know about lonely? He'd spent long days alone in his room, hadn't he? It was sort of unclear, but he didn't remember much interaction beyond routine tests and training sessions.

So why would he feel lonely? He had always been alone.

His brow furrowed deeper.

Did he know people before Holy Nightmare? Had he had a friend? Family?

That last thought made him feel cold despite the flames. Family. Maybe. But from where? Did they know that he was going to forget them? Did they support Nightmare's cause, too?

Something about these thoughts unsettled Efreeti, and he stood to walk them off.

Maybe reading again about this legend Kirby would help him get his mind off everything else.

Tapping his disk, he brought up the information log on this odd fairy-tale person.

_The warrior prophesied to face Zero Two in the 4th Era of the Sol is Kirby of the Stars, considered the successor of the Universe's last Star-Warrior, Galacta Knight. It is believed that Kirby of the Stars was discovered in the fortress of Holy Nightmare, but smuggled to an unknown surrounding star system by a recalcitrant demon beast. Little information survives about the Star Warrior and some sources believe he has perished. It is widely agreed, however, that Kirby of the Stars possesses white wings and blonde hair, much as his predecessor did. If discovered, inform higher authority immediately._

Efreeti felt even more confused than when he had started, much like the first time he'd read Kirby's tragically short entry.

Prophesized? By whom? And what demon beast would ever disobey Nightmare's commands? Anyway, wouldn't it be easy to track down someone who had white wings?

No wonder Cultra had called Kirby a legend. The whole basis of his legend was flawed, couldn't be true.

Maybe it had been inspired by the GSA, who were, as Efreeti was certain he could remember, silly dreamers with little grounding in reality.

Nodding to himself, he stoked the fire. All he had to do was amble around this planet for a bit more, prove that there was no evidence to this Kirby character, and then he could return home.

_Crack._

Efreeti froze.

That hadn't been the fire. Sounded like a branch, somewhere deeper in the woods.

Now that he focused, he in fact realized that there was low murmur pervading the air, distant and yet undeniable.

His brow furrowed. It sounded like a hum, getting louder, louder…

No…. not a hum. Feet. Dozens of feet. Drawing closer.

A knife slid from his sheath; he held it in a steady hand, his eyes roving through the trees. Nightmare's work had left him with superior night vision, this he knew intuitively. Even so, the hulking shapes of brush and tree obscured his vision from whatever walked in the dark.

Quietly, Efreeti backed away from the fire, which would only betray his location. He slipped away into the darkness, cautious to roll his feet and avoid branches or leaves.

He was tempted to call out, but he had no idea what monsters, what creatures, might hunt in the woods. This was an unfamiliar forest, an unfamiliar planet, and anything could lurk here.

Licking his lips, Efreeti huddled beside a tree and listened.

His heartbeat thudded in his ears.

The great rising shuffling, like thousands of feet trampling brush underfoot. Efreeti tensed, his hand sweaty on his knife. He sure hoped he would remember how to fight, if it came down to it. There was no telling. He didn't know what his body knew and his mind didn't.

The shuffling grew louder, louder; Efreeti inversely huddled smaller and smaller against the tree trunk. At this point the mass must have neared his camp – quickly Efreeti tried to recall if he had left anything of importance there. But no, the only thing of his that held any importance now was the disc attached to his wrist.

Voices began to carry over the wind, the foremost one firm and feminine,

"… still burning, they can't have been gone long…"

So they found his fire.

A second voice, "you don't think it's a demon, do you, miss?"

Efreeti gripped his knife tighter. And they had heard about demon beasts, then.

"There's no way to tell. Keep moving."

Twig and leaf bent and broke beneath their approaching steps.

By the sound of them, they were much too great a force of people to take at once. As his supervisor had said, fighting wasn't his forte, right?

Efreeti glanced desperately left and right. If he couldn't fight, perhaps he could escape… his ship was only three or four miles away, if he ran for it….

Yes, that was his best bet. Nodding in resolve, Efreeti ducked low to the damp sweet-smelling earth and quietly, oh so quietly, began to crawl northward.

Perhaps after he reached his ship, he could fly up and examine the area from –

"Excuse me."

His stomach dropped. He paused, mid-crawl. Slowly, slowly, his eyes curved up.

A warrior stood there, sword at her hip, face scarred but eyes kind. "Are you a demon?" she asked, and it was surprisingly curious rather than hostile.

A sympathizer of Nightmare?

Clearing his throat, Efreeti stood awkwardly. Deny it? Admit it? Not all planets favored Nightmare's rule, but she didn't seem afraid or hateful of him…

"My name is Efreeti," he said instead.

She smiled. "I'm Fumu. Maybe you can help us."


End file.
